The Price is Right
by sweetdreams-sunnymornings
Summary: Morelli says Ranger is a mercenary; Steph thinks he has secrets...and maybe he kills people. Ranger on the job...if the price is right. Babe.  COMPLETE
1. Prolog I'm Not Late, I was Busy

Main characters you recognize are JE's. Anthony, Zoë, Jilly and all the feds, etc. are mine. Anthony is Ranger's half-brother but they often just refer to themselves as friends.

Anthony has appeared in Adalind's Bailey/ Ranger stories. Babe, no Morelli bashing. This story takes place in the Plum future; R & S are married.

Standard fanfic disclaimers apply.

**Intro:**

from Ten Big Ones [edited]: _Ranger was in S.W.A.T. black cargo pants and T-shirt. His hair was dark, and his eyes were dark, and his skin reflected his Cuban ancestry. No one knew Ranger's age... no one knew where Ranger lived or where his cars and cash originated. Probably it was best not to know. _

_Ranger locked eyes with me. Sometimes it felt like Ranger could look you in the eye and know all the stuff that was inside your head. It saved a lot of time since talk wasn't necessary. _

_"Babe," Ranger said. And he left. _

_"Cupcake, the guy's a mercenary." _

**The Price is Right**

**Prolog: "I'm Not Late, I was **_**Busy**_**..."**

I walked away, hearing Steph defend me: _"Ranger's not a mercenary. At least not officially in Trenton. He's a bounty hunter ... like me." _

It warmed my hardass soul, but I was thinking, _Yeah, so what? So I'm a mercenary. You got a problem with that, Officer Morelli? I don't see you getting the job done, do I?_

And, you know how that goes: The Job-somebody has to do it. May as well be me. The name I am currently using is Carlos Manoso. Most people call me Ranger. It's a _street_ name.

_**a few years later...**_

**Inside myself I jumped about 15 feet** in the air and screamed like a little girl.

Outwardly calm however, my reaction to the whispered _hey_ was a fast and silent body twist and a knife to the speaker's throat. We rolled a couple times in the frigid dust and rocks of the central highlands of XXXistan, ending up with me on top. The man didn't fight me at all, instead he went limp and was whispering, "Ranger! Yo, man! Ranger! Hey!"

Oh. My name. Sort of.

In American English.

So I didn't kill him.

Good thing because when I finally got my heart rate back to normal I was staring into the dark eyes of my friend Anthony Stewart, the almost-black Spanish eyes that were so like my own. The light was poor-it was past midnight, full moon glowing in the night sky-but I could see his hair was dyed dark too, so the mirror image illusion intensified. He, however, looked clean, rested, and well-fed.

I hissed, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood?" he offered.

I was so pissed I actually dug the knife in a little and Anthony squirmed beneath my heavily armed body. I was on a covert op for the US military, picking up locations and intell on the current gang of Afghani rebel warlords. There was a discreetly worded huge bonus offered if I took out a particularly nasty anti-everything Al Qaeda leader while I was on the job. I just spent three miserable weeks, tracking this asshole down, I finally have him in my sights and-oh look! my brother shows up? Gimme a break!

I said, "You did not need to know."

He said, "Yeah, well, I was like, curious, man. Couldn't help wondering what hell was so interesting you left Steph and Zoë all alone without a word. Three weeks, Ranger?"

I said, "I hope you weren't followed? You maybe just bought us both a shitload of trouble."

"Curiosity often leads to trouble," said Anthony. My hand holding the knife jerked and he added, "Ranger, your exfiltration date was six days ago, and let's look at this from my point of view: you, my man, are _never_ late."

"You know the drill. When I am in the wind solo, the important word is _solo_. I suggest you remember that in the future, because you almost got your throat slit just now, little brother."

Anthony said, "Good advice. If I listened earlier, I wouldn't be here. But that's just the trouble with me. I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it."

And he flipped me hard onto my back, knocking the air from my lungs. A rock bit into my ass and I groaned silently.

Anthony kicked the knife out of my hand and stood over me, hands on his hips, looking self-satisfied.

_Oh yeah. Unarmed combat expert. How silly of me to forget._

Anthony said, "What were you thinking?" and jerked his chin at the knife in the dust. I shrugged and wheezed. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up, then we hunkered down together in my surveillance post. Out of the wind but I suddenly shivered.

I said, "Some celebration went on tonight, lotta drinking of whatever the fuck they keep in those goatskins. I figure the mark will stagger out to the latrine at about 0300."

"Silenced round to the head?"

"Yeah. I planned to be long gone when they find him."

I shivered again, just a little. I was cold and hungry and determined. I wanted to ask how he found me so easily when I'd been tracking this wasteland for weeks. I was getting ticked off again. _What, he just bops right in looking clueless and lethal, or what?_

Eyes glued to the infrared binos, Antonio said in my head _You __know__ how..._

Yeah. I know.

Out loud, in a whisper, he said, "You don't want me to offer to do the honors here, do you?"

"No."

"Okay...um, want a power bar? And a lift?"

"Yeah."

"There he is, man, at your 2 o'clock."

"Ten four." _Pppffft._

_Nice shot._

_Uh huh._

Anthony handed me a granola bar and I squinted at the label. I said, "Do these things have carbs?"

_**to be continued...**_


	2. Chapter One The Price is Right

**Ranger on the job. Don't you always wonder what he's thinking when he just stands around all silent, looking mysterious. And hot? So...inside Ranger's head -and others' too...enjoy.**

**a/n I want to thank everyone who read & bookmarked my story...and especially those who left me a review. I hope I didn't miss anyone, w/ a personal thx, but if I did: Thank you! sunnyd.**

**... ... ... ...**

**Chapter one - _The Price is Right _**

**I listened to the new head of National Security** drone on and I wondered what the fuck I was doing here. These politicians can talk for hours. Days even. I was beginning to think I should have packed my toothbrush. I clenched my jaw to stifle a yawn.

The recently appointed National Security Director shook his finger in the face of CIA director Alison Marshall. He said, "I have been appointed by the newly confirmed Secretary of Homeland Security. And I will follow his mandate!" See, I told you they were politicians. It seems ridiculous that something as crucial to our nation's survival can be swayed by the changes an election brings. New Cabinet meant new Homeland Security chief, which in turn meant this guy was newly hired and now in charge. I had a pang of sympathy for CIA director Marshall, but she too was a DC politico. In her own way.

The National Security guy finished his tirade saying, "The CIA is in the information gathering business. Period! Your agents are not assassins. The United States does NOT go around killing people on foreign soil!"

_Could have fooled me._

"And it is crucial that we no longer give the impression."

_Aha! _

Marshall stood up, forcing the man to remove his finger from her face. She said, "I understand entirely, sir." And the man flounced out.

Marshall turned to us and said, "Did you get that, gentlemen?"

The man who invited/ ordered me here today nodded. I just stared. Pete Harriman might work for her, but I do not. Nor do any of my undercover personas or cover identities. As far as I am concerned, the CIA is a customer, just like any other alphabet agency.

_Get in line_, I thought. _Bring your checkbook_.

She said, "The President is adamant that we improve our world image. Hence these directives. But, of course…"

Pete said, "It's a dirty job but somebody has to do it."

"Exactly. Trite—but, yes. Correct. Think: _covert. _Top secret?"

The both looked at me.

I raised my eyebrows.

?

….

**When my top gun, clandestine agent** Peter Harriman, told me he had just the man to work my new ultra-covert agenda, I asked him to bring the man in. I was expecting yet another operative-style tough guy and instead I got this-this-thug. My initial impression was that he was hopelessly wrong for this work. He was so handsome it bordered on the absurd, _no way could he work undercover_, I thought. He was also too young and probably inexperienced, and too well-dressed—Armani suit, Hermes tie, long silky dark hair, black mirrored sunglasses that he casually tucked away on meeting me.

Even the introductions were strange. Harriman announced my name but did not tell me his. The man had nodded coolly, saying nothing.

I decided to flounder on with the job offer, given the fact that Harriman spoke highly of the strange young man and that I had, after all, taken the time and effort to bring him here to CIA headquarters. I explained about the very covert group I was organizing at the order of our new President.

I said, "You would be a government employee, with all the benefits that go with."

?

"Medical, dental, vacation days, retirement fund. Perhaps even a government sedan."

"What kind?"

"What kind of what?"

"What kind of car?"

"I don't know! A Chevrolet or something."

Silence. Then, "You are seriously offering me a job?" His eyes flicked to Harriman who shrugged.

I said, "Yes. You'd be a GS 10. The pay is…." I named the current salary.

His face stayed neutral but his eyes were—laughing.

He said, "Ah…."

… … ... ...

**Give me a break! I'm gonna run around** doing the CIA's black ops shit for that kind of money? Please.

I said, "A GS 10 is the equivalent of a lieutenant in the ARMY."

"Yes. It seems very fair for a man your age."

"Uh huh." Geez-When I work black ops, I'm a US Army Special Forces (Delta) full-bird Colonel. The Federal equivalent is maybe a GS 15? I looked at Pete Harriman.

He said, "Maybe we could do better." The woman frowned.

I said, "You know the deal, Pete."

"Yeah I know the deal. But…."

I turned to Marshall, who probably had not meant to be ridiculous and insulting. I hesitated, wondering just what to say, what she really needed to know. Finally I said, "Ma'am. I am-flattered. But you are misinformed. I am not available for hire in that sense."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

I said, "You got us here, Pete. You explain."

Harriman sighed, his face reddening a little.

"Ra-I mean this gentleman-is a freelance operator. The _deal_ is-we tell him who we need…"

"Whacked." I said.

"Yeah. Whacked. And he tells us how much it'll cost. Then we pay it. In full, in advance. By instant wire transfer to his offshore accounts."

Marshall looked appalled. "A freelancer? Is that a fancy term for a mercenary?"

"Yes."

She digested that and said, "What does it cost? Having you on the job."

"A lot, Director Marshall." _A whole hell of a lot._

"Your country needs your services! How can you just-_extort _money from us like that!"

_Excuse me? Extort?_

I said, "I suppose your job is volunteer, Director Marshall? You work for free? In the service of your nation, of course."

"No, but…."

"Play or pay."

She regrouped and said, "We'll get back to you."

I smiled at her and her eyes widened a little and she caught her breath. Good to know that even hardass CIA ladies are susceptible sometimes.

I said, "Pete knows where to find me." And I left.

… ... ... ...

**Marshall looked at his retreating back**, sure that she detected that military Special Forces combination of honed muscles and huge ego. The door clicked shut quietly.

"Can we afford to use him, Peter?"

"We can't afford not to, ma'am."

**to be continued...**


	3. Chapter Two No Extra Charge

**The Price is Right **

_**Chapter Two ~ No Extra Charge **_

**A Secret Service agent ushered us** into the offices of the new Secretary of Homeland Security, Elaine Hamilton. We were here today to accept a contract for the private work we do at Rangeman. Ranger had acquiesced to this meet at the urgent request of CIA director Alison Marshall, whom he had interviewed a couple of weeks prior.

The agent said, "Please have a seat, gentlemen. We are awaiting the arrival of the Secretary of Defense and the President's National Security advisor."

Ranger looked at his watch.

The agent said, "Coffee, tea? Water?"

"No thank you," said Ranger. The agent just looked at him. I think he found us somewhat scary, which seemed absurd as Ranger was looking quite fine in a male-model-ish way, with his 5 figures Brioni suit and his very long hair. And me? Shit I wore an effin' suit, too. After a moment Ranger added, "You can go." The man left. I took a seat on the sofa but Ranger paced across the room, fingered the curtain aside to look out the window. Ranger was either annoyed or tense or looking for bugs - electronic bugs, I mean.

I said quietly, "Remind me why we are doing this?"

"Because I got the feeling last time that Pete, you remember Pete? Harriman?" I nodded. We'd been in Special Forces together for awhile, long ago and far away. "I have an idea he needs some _reliable_ back up."

End of explanation. And good enough for me.

Ranger added anyway, "And the President called me, asked quite nicely…. Said there was plenty of money in the CIA black operations budget. Sooo…I figure, why not."

Ranger finished scrutinizing the waiting room and he came over and took a seat across from me. And we sat. In the silence we became aware that the inner office door was not entirely closed and audible voices were coming through the 2" opening.

Voices and girlish giggles.

Ranger narrowed his eyes and looked at his watch again. I could practically see him adding zeros to his fees for each minute he sat here, the dollars piling on like the gizmo on the gas pumps at the Gas 'n' Go Drive Thru on Route 6 in Edison. Ranger doesn't like to be kept waiting. Especially since they made him - us - leave our guns downstairs.

The voices got a bit louder. We heard, "….omigod, Elaine, wait til you see this guy, this mercenary!" I looked at Ranger who held a finger to his lips, the universal shush sign. He mouthed silently, _Marshall_, so I knew he had recognized CIA Director Marshall's voice.

"He is _awesome_! Just the hottest man you have ever seen, girl!"

A new voice, "Smokin', huh, Ally?"

"Oh god, he doesn't smoke, this boy sizzles, I gotta tell you…! He looks like the centerfold of _Playgirl_ if they ran a _Soldier of Fortune_ crossover edition!" The ensuing giggles were interrupted by a buzz and the outer door opened to allow the entrance of the rest of our meeting's attendees.

Introductions all around: Ranger being called Mr. Manoso and I was Mr. Thomas. Handshakes and so on. The Secretary of Defense was a former US ARMY General who knew us from back in the day and he nodded cordially, saying, "Tank, Ranger! Good to see you both!"

Ranger looked at his watch some more. I figured he was mulling over the phrases _boy_ and _sizzles_.

Finally we were all ushered into a smallish conference room with no windows-a secure room. Marshall gave her spiel, how she wanted us - well, Ranger - and Rangeman in its entirety to sign on as "go-to" guys in the event of an emergency that the regular groups and troops couldn't handle. Since this is what we do all the time (including for the CIA, _this woman was under briefed,_ I thought then smiled at my pun), Ranger must have figured he could screw some extra money out of the feds by pandering to Marshall's inexperience and insecurities.

I caught the General's perplexed glance at Ranger (he was another happy client, of course) and almost missed Ranger's brief negative head shake.

Marshall wound down and set some papers in front of Ranger. "Look this over. If it meets your approval, please sign it. It does include a non-disclosure contract also."

Ranger gently shoved it back to her unread.

"Tank. Explain."

"Yessir. Mrs. Director….."

"Director Marshall is fine, no need to call me _Mrs._, young man."

"As I was saying, " I went on, "First of all, how is it remotely possible that you thought we'd sign anything without our attorneys here?" I over-rode her answer, "Secondly, I am very sure that Mr. Manoso, when he met with you initially, made it clear that he does not sign contracts. Never, no matter what." _No way, no how._

"But…"

"You have to trust me, ma'am," said Ranger.

"Lastly, we have a contract for you to sign." I handed her a folder containing the standard Rangeman agreement forms. I said, "It also includes a non-disclosure agreement. One we do not hesitate to enforce, ma'am.'' I looked briefly at the general who gave me a curt but polite nod. "Look it over. Wire the stipulated amounts to the specified offshore accounts by end of business day. Today. Messenger us a signed, witnessed and notarized copy. Your contract does not go into effect until this is in my hands, even if you've sent Mr. Manoso the cash."

"But…"

The Secretary of Homeland Security, Elaine Whatsis, said, "You refuse to sign a contract but you expect us to do so! And what about our attorneys?"

Ranger stood up and said, "If you want to employ Rangeman you must sign it." He shrugged. "Up to you, I have all the business I can handle. Ma'am. And by all means have your attorneys go over every little clause and sentence. Read all the fine print. Especially, this line, see it?"

He opened the contract to the page where his fee schedule was printed. "See what it says, can you read the fine print, ladies? And gentlemen? It says, **There is no [additional]charge for awesomeness, or attractiveness."**

And he graced them with his famous blinding breathtaking million dollar smile.

"Tank, our work here is done. Gentlemen. General."

We made it to the foyer and got our guns without laughing.

Outside on the front steps of the famous federal building, I said, "Oh holy Jesus, do you think they'll really pay you just to keep you on retainer!"

"Tank, my man. Of course they will. After all, no one else can tell them we work it any other way. Let's get a beer."

tbc

a/n Hi! I want to thank everyone who has read/ reviewed/ bookmarked my story. The story is complete except for minor editing and if everyone continues to enjoy it, I plan to post updates late Sunday nights (eastern US time), Wednesdays and Fridays. Or if RL gets hectic just twice a week: Sunday and Thursday. I hope you all enjoy...

sunny


	4. Chapter Three Give Me Money

Thanks again to everyone who read, reviewed, commented! To those of you with questions - keep reading! :-)

**The Price is Right **

**Chapter Three, Part One: **_**The Butterfly Did It**_

**We chased the man through the seven story tenement**, a building not unlike Rangeman but rundown and mostly abandoned. We had just arrived back in the US after an op in-um, well. NYPD caught up with us at the private planes sector at JFK, someone at Homeland Security had suggested they use us.

My name is Anthony Stewart and like the rest of the guys here today, I am at times a mercenary soldier. And we are running an off-the-books, unplanned — probably _unpaid! -_- job in this rather crummy area of Brooklyn, not far from the Middle Eastern neighborhood where we took out a group of terrorists a few months back. We are all exhausted, and / or injured, but hey - NYPD, you know. Those dudes don't fuck around. They need us, we're there.

We pounded up the stairs behind this guy. He burst out onto the roof and an alarm blared. We ignored the noise and ran hard on his heels, though Ranger yelled at Lester to _shut that shit up_. I followed the man and Ranger out onto the roof while Lester paused long enough to pull all the wires and there was sudden blessed silence, only distant traffic sounds and the wind.

The man got halfway across the old flat tar roof -tar beach, man, so, like retro -and turned to face Ranger, the man's eyes wide and desperate. He darted towards the roofline and we froze.

Now what? We had been called in because some NSA spy gadget picked up the signal of a missile or rocket drone. It led us to this building and this man but it was obvious he carried no large weapon or transponder or rocket launcher. It was dusk but the man was fairly visible. He was maybe in his 40s, middle-aged fit, dark hair, dark complexion, straggle of dark beard. And he was wearing a yarmulke. Which was not so strange for Brooklyn but a little odd for an Arab terrorist.

I thought, _Undercover, dude?_ But said nothing, awaiting my cue from Ranger.

The skel's terrified eyes jumped madly from me to Ranger to Lester. Since we just got back from the sandpit, we were all unshaven and not real clean, still wearing the well-worn laborers' clothes we wore in Baghdad. Or wherever. I had cut my hair short and had it dyed dark brown, so to this guy the three of us no doubt looked like the triplets from hell -the family resemblance is pretty strong among the three of us. His eyes jerked back and forth between us, trying to understand who or what we were. Maybe he thought he was on drugs or living a nightmare, who the heck knows.

Ranger spoke calmly trying to occupy the man's attention as Les and I circled round, one left, one right.

Ranger said, "We are federal agents. Freeze and put your hands on top of your head_." Federal agents? A little hyperbole from my big brother..._

The man just stared, his hands cupped to his chest. Ranger waited, then repeated the order twice, once in New York City Hebrew, once in Israeli Hebrew.

The man showed no comprehension but his fingers opened a little when Lester feinted a rush from the left. And he tried to back up to the parapet edge.

We three squinted through the dusky evening light.

Ranger ESPed, _What the fuck is in his hands?_

I looked closer. It appeared to be a butterfly, a common monarch AKA_ Danaus plexippus_ — orange and black. It was pretty big, typical size though, maybe 3" by 4". Not rare in New York state but not so common in this cement-bound area of the city. On the other hand, they eat milkweed nectar and there's plenty of weed-filled vacant lots around here.

What? I like butterflies, so sue me. I wasn't always a merc, I was a geeky little kid once upon time, you know….Oh okay. Not geeky. But anyway.

I circled around behind him. We didn't really care if he jumped and besides Tank and Brown were manning the sidewalk below. But we'd rather he didn't splatter himself before we could interrogate him.

_Butterfly — hmmm._ And like a light bulb going on in a cartoon, I realized what we were seeing.

My voice cut across Ranger's trying Arabic, then Farsi to no avail.

I said, "The butterfly. It's a drone."

Lester said, "Right now we aren't real worried about the bug's sex life, Antonio."

Ranger's eyes met mine over the man's shoulder.

?

I said, "It's a tiny plane or a flying microcomputer. It's a _drone_. It is maybe programmed to set off an explosion or something. He's not protecting it. He's holding it captive."

This entire time we had been circling the man, three lions homing in on their prey. It seemed like hours were passing, like totally slow motion, but I am guessing only a minute or two had passed since we all ran out onto this roof top.

Ranger tried Pashto, figuring maybe the yarmulke was a disguise. He said, "Give me the drone." And got a response. Finally! The guy shook his head no.

I silently unslung my rifle and got the man's head in my sights. Not that I could miss from 12 feet away. I yelled in Pashto — the guy was Afghani - "Drop it or I'll shoot."

He started and let go of the butterfly drone. It fell a foot then recovered, hovering between us. And the evilly beautiful little thing rotated slowly as its GPS system reloaded the kill site. The man was fast. He reached out and grabbed it, turned to make a run for the edge of the roof.

Lester blocked and said, "Going somewhere, my man?" in Spanish and the second of confusion slowed the man down. When he recovered I was only 5 feet away, Ranger almost as close from the other side. Then to our shock, the man pinched the drone by its wings and opened his mouth, giving us a clear glimpse of third world dental work, wet red lips and scraggly beard.

I yelled, "No! No way, man!" His mouth opened wider. "Oh, come on! Please. Don't eat the butterfly!"

He stopped, cocked his head in query. I could see him processing _no _even if he didn't understand all my words. I'd foolishly spoken in English.

He finally said, "Pretty."

_Ooookaaay._ We froze again. Ranger said, slowly, "Yes. Pretty."

Nod.

I said, "Poison. Ick, " and made Steph's gag-me gesture.

"Is sick?"

I put my gun away and approached very slowly. The man held the drone on his palm, one finger of his other hand pressing its tiny black body down to hold it still. In the silence I could hear it buzzing. And I got close enough to see its little eyes were red and rotating insanely.

The buzz got louder and meaner. Another light bulb in my little brain. I screamed, "Oh shit oh shit! Get down take cover. Cover!"

Ranger, Les, and I turned, dove, rolled; Ranger kindly yelling a translation for the man as we ran. We covered our heads and hid our eyes from the coming blast.

But I peeked-the butterfly, uneaten but captured, exploded in a cataclysmic poof of hot green smoke.

Ten minutes later we stood over the body of the maybe-terrorist.

I said, "So was he like just a poor dumb schmuck who being used or was he totally undercover and trying to distract us?"

Ranger toed the guy's inert body. "We may never know."

We stood there listening to the sirens, NYPD was on the job. Ranger said, "Do me a favor, guys?"

"Sure bro," from me. A nod from Lester.

"Don't tell Steph or Zoë we blew up a butterfly this trip, Ok, guys?"

Laughing seemed inappropriate so we just waited in silence. Our moment was interrupted by the clanking, hulking arrival of NYPD SWAT, all these dudes dressed up like Ranger wannabees. Their lead man ran up to us and screamed, "Where're the rest of the cell? The other terrorists? What's their target?" SWAT guys can be really hyper, you know-all that vicarious adrenaline.

Ranger clapped the cop's shoulder and said, "I have no idea. And right now—I'm going home."

"Wait! Did you shoot him?" the cop called after us.

Ranger stopped and looked back, then said, "No. No shooting. The butterfly did it."

And we went home to get some much deserved rest. Little did we know...

... ... ...

**Chapter Three/ Part Two **_**Give Me Money**_

**The following morning before I could sit my ass down **and start on the mounds of paperwork that reproduced like fuckin' bunnies while I was, ah, offline last week, I got the dreaded phone call from DC.

"You, Mr. Manoso, are a bastard! An avaricious, fucking bastard!" Elaine Hamilton shrieked over my dedicated black ops line.

_Geez, tell me what you really think! And you,_ _Secretary Hamilton - are a lying c -._

I cut off the thought and the word. Why descend to her level?

I said mildly, "Sticks and stones, ma'am. And I may be a bastard, but I'm not a fucking bastard."

"You agreed to take the job! We signed your stupid contract and we sent it. Notarized as ordered," newly appointed Secretary of Homeland Security Elaine Hamilton said sarcastically.

"Yes but you didn't pay me yet. Ma'am."

"The funds will come as soon as the Senate budgetary commission okays the expenditure."

We were on an encrypted landline and I actually took the phone from my ear and stared at it, unable to believe what I was hearing. Rangeman's government contracts get paid with what is called _black money_ or _black funds_. Did she really think I was gonna wait to see if maybe the Senate wants to pay me? No way, not gonna happen.

I said, "Like my old Chinese granny -" (I made mental finger quotes, neither of my grandmothers are Chinese and they'd be heartbroken to hear me call them _old_.) "- always said, _No tickee, no washee _- or in your case: no money, no action."

"Your? Your what? Are you out of your mind?"

I shook my head sadly. Screeching is just so - _inappropriate_ in a business relationship. And that's what this was - business. Rangeman is not a charity; she needed to learn that. I run a private military group, not the Salvation Army.

Actually I was already one foot out the door, on my way to the airport. My pre-op crew was still deployed in XXX-istan; my core group and I would return by 1800 tomorrow, 'stan time, if she let me get off the phone. No way was I going to let the small group of embattled Spec Ops guys - ARMY, in this case - get left stranded by her stupidity and the bureaucracy of the US government. But she didn't need to know that. And I wanted my money. It's not cheap running these ops; RMPMC's equipment is first rate and my guys get top dollar. Plus there's a new Porsche coming out in few weeks and the first black one on the boat has my name on it.

Tank appeared in the open doorway of my office. He frowned at me and made a Hurry Up motion then pointed to his watch.

I cut into Hamilton's tirade and said, "Let me put you on hold for a moment. Enjoy the music." I pressed the button that cued my special government Hold track. I listened for a sec to the instrumental, elevator music version of the Beatles' _Money_. And smiled at Tank.

I gently put the phone in its cradle and said, "Let's roll." And we left the office, the USA, the civilized world - the red hold light blinking angrily in our wake.

**tbc**

*****RMPMC= Rangeman Private Military Corporation. In my fics it is the name of Ranger's out-of-US military group. Private military corporations are a fancy term for the mercenary groups being employed currently by the US government. Billions of $ are being paid to the private sector for security and other services involving current military activities abroad. Ranger of course, is cashing in.*****

**Money~ The Beatles**

(presumably Secretary Hamilton is old enough to recognize the song and its meaning…)

_The best things in life are free  
But you can keep them for the __birds__ and bees  
Now give me __money__  
That's what I want  
That's what I want, yeah  
That's what I want__pay my bills__  
Now give me __money__  
That's what I want  
That's what I want, yeah  
That's what I want__need money__  
now, give me money  
That's what I want, yeah  
that's what I want, yeah_

Your lovin' gives me a thrill  
But your lovin' don't

Money don't get everything it's true  
What it don't get, I can't use  
Now give me money  
That's what I want  
That's what I want, yeah  
That's what I want, wah

Wow, yeah, you


	5. Chapter Four Those Effin' Penguins

**The Price is Right**

**Chapter Four ~ **_**Those Effin' Penguins**_

**I got the idea something wasn't right** when Tank leaned over and said, "This is a really quiet chopper, Rangeman." That woke me up fast.

We had been exfiltrated post-op from a frigid beach at the bottom of the world…AKA Chile, maybe? Getting there took us three days, driving non-stop in off-road jeeps; we brought two vehicles in case of transport problems. One guy drove, one guy slept and the great god of GPS got us to our pick up point in a safe and timely manner.

We never pictured having _aerial _transport problems.

Stupid with exhaustion I had allowed myself to trust the Air Force heli pilots and like the rest of my guys, I fell asleep.

The sudden silence woke us all and now I locked eyes with first Tank, then Antonio and my cousin Lester Santos. They all stared back at me.

?

?

?

Lester was peering out the tiny window and he reported land below, he was guessing the coastal plains of Argentina because we were headed to Buenos Aires where we'd left our own plane.

Now the door to the cockpit opened and the pilot stepped out, closely followed by the co-pilot. Both wore Air Force flight suits and by their rank markings I figured they were experienced pilots. But obviously they were relying on the auto-pilot function at the moment. The two men hustled to the strapped down equipment bay and began hauling out parachutes. Toss, thunk, toss, thunk - parachute bags landed at our feet.

I said, "What the fuck is going on, gentlemen?"

"You guys are special ops, right?"

We sat in silence.

"So you know all about jumping out of planes? Isn't that spec ops 101?"

It was - I was guessing he meant Paratrooper training which was the prerequisite for Rangers school - but I don't like jumping out because the freakin' plane is crashing. I like to jump when it's all planned, with a target, and a reason for it. And I get paid extra.

I asked, "Why are we jumping out?"

"Shit, man, those freaking penguins again! They clog the beaches down there near Antarctica, didn't you see them?"

?

"And they're worse than the Canadian geese at La Guardia…our engines sucked 'em in and - too bad - didn't spit 'em out. We've lost engine 1, and engine 2 is no longer on fire. We have maybe 30 seconds left to bail, c'mon! Sir."

The copilot hauled the sliding door open and said to the pilot, "After you, Major."

The pilot motioned again. "Come ON!"

I said, "We'll catch up, Major. You go ahead."

With final frantic glares the two AF men jumped and were gone. Tank slammed the door shut and Anthony climbed over the chutes and sat himself down in the pilot's seat. I sat down on his right and we strapped in, put on the abandoned headsets. He looked over at me and grinned. Touched the ignition button for engine #2.

Antonio said in my earphones, "He said it quit burning, he didn't say it died. He panicked."

Action. Noise. The engine spit out feathers - Antonio said, "Oh bummer, that is so sad. I like, totally _love_ penguins." - coughed twice and caught. The stench of burnt feathers wafted in through the control panel vents. Our slow spiral to fast-approaching earth halted and our course leveled out.

I asked, "Is it flyable?"

Anthony was busy reading all the cockpit gauges and the on-board flight computer. Lotta red was still flashing. He's a more experienced heli pilot than me so I waited for his decision. Finally he nodded.

"Emergency land?" I suggested.

"Nah, it's cool. _No problemo_."

Lester, leaning in between us, said, "I have the GPS co-ords if we want to go pick those guys up?"

Silence, only the roar of the BlackHawk's damaged but valiantly laboring engine filled the space of a few beats.

Antonio said, "We'll send a chopper back for them. Let's go home."

… … …

"How was your trip, Ranger?"

"Fine, babe. Uneventful."

Stephanie, who had picked us up at Teterboro, a private airstrip in northern New Jersey, caught Lester's snort and a flash of suspicion crossed her lovely face.

She looked in the rearview mirror at the boys in the back seat of the Yukon, then fixed her attention back on the Jersey Turnpike's heavy traffic as she expertly muscled the big SUV towards Trenton.

When things slowed down again she said, "So — everybody is Ok?"

I nodded a little.

"Anthony? Tank?"

"Fine, babe."

"Fine, Steph."

"What about you, Les? You're good too?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am _fine_. I'm just looking forward to good meal and a beer or two. Ella is cooking, isn't she?"

"Sure." She and I exchanged glances, wondering which of us invited the whole gang. I smirked, she shrugged prettily.

We drove awhile, then to break what was becoming an uncomfortable silence I said, "So how was your week? How's my Princess?"

I don't make small talk, so her look of suspicion returned big time. We've been married for more than three years now...not much gets by her anymore. She answered very calmly, "My week was fine. Uneventful - as the saying goes."

_Oh geez, did she blow up my Porsche?_

"And Zoë is very excited. We have an outing tomorrow, remember?"

"Uh….."

"To the Philadelphia Aquarium. You promised you'd go on her school field trip to see the penguins."

"Omigod, pull over, Steph." Lester leaned out of the Yukon and puked in the gravel shoulder. Someone handed him a roll of paper towels and a bottle of water.

We resumed our drive.

Stephanie said, "I never knew you got carsick, Lester. Man, you turned green! Next time, I'll let you ride shotgun, okay."

"Yeah. If there is a next time."

**...**

**We all bravely went to the Aquarium with Zoë and her pre-K class.** The bus ride was the trip from hell, crashing a heli in the Andes cannot begin to compare. My daughter was thrilled that her daddy and all her big handsome uncles were there. None of us got carsick on the school bus but the Rangeman group was noticeably absent during the penguin feed.

On the ride home, Stephanie held my hand and asked, "Did you have fun, Ranger?"

"Babe."

"You liked the penguins, right, daddy?" Zoë's big brown eyes were watchful.

"Sure, baby."

"Daddydaddydaddy! There's a place out past the beach that has little tiny toy baby penguins. Like little stuffed toys but they're real, alive, _real_ - real baby penguins!"

"Hmmm."

"And you can pet them! And they _kiss_ you."

_Not me, baby girl..._

"Maybe Uncle Anthony can take you someday, he lives out there..."

Anthony heard his name, looked up and smiled. "Sorry, man." He gestured with his cell phone. "You're offline so the general got to me like, through my office."

"How is that even possible?" asked Steph. "Aren't you, well, undercover? In-cog-neeee-to?"

She and Zoë giggled.

Anthony shrugged. "Good help is hard to find, my PA ratted me out. Anyways, dude, we're on call. DC 0900 tomorrow. NSA thing. Bummer."

Zoë pouted out her lower lip and sulked. "Bummer."

Anthony and I caved in unison, like we practiced. "We'll go soon, chica. Soon, sweetheart," we promised her and watched her beautiful little face light up the ugly old school bus. "Someday."

"Soon," she said.

_Shit._

**tbc**

***The heli engine technology is a little murky in my fic. Hope we can just go with it….***

****The penguin petting place is in, I believe, Riverhead, NY. They actually let you play with the baby penguins! For $, lol. .com**


	6. Chapter Five Be Prepared

**a/n Thanks to everyone who has read, bookmarked and especially extra Thanks to those who have reviewed. It's quite a thrill to hear from you guys. And if I know you're liking this story, more Mercenary Ranger stories may be appearing in the future. So - let me know?**

**love, sunny d.**

**... ... ... ...**

**The Price is Right**

_**Chapter Five - Be Prepared**_

**As soon as we got home from the second penguin debacle**, I called Maitland at the NSA and rescheduled our meeting. I haven't been in Trenton for more than a day at time for weeks and neither had my men. I could loaf for a day or two, right? Plus all that damn paperwork...

Now I was parked at the curb in front of a dingy tenement a couple blocks off Stark Street. I noted Steph's newest black Mercedes SUV was parked nearby just as a guy in baggy jeans and a wifebeater ran out of the alley beside the building. The guy skidded to a stop and looked hard at my new Porsche Panamera sedan but the blacked out windows kept him from seeing me clearly. He tugged up his pants and ran past. I watched in my rear view mirrors as he hopped into a crummy chopped "low-rider" Nissan pickup and drove away.

_Huh. Needs a tune up and a muffler,_ I thought and waited patiently for Stephanie to appear. Seconds later she too came out of the alley and stood hands on hips, looking pissed off as her skip disappeared around the corner. Then she caught sight of me and her _pissed off_ ratcheted up a few notches.

_Sigh. Sometimes a man can't win._

By now I knew my wife well enough to understand that she did NOT want me to grab her skip and she didn't want me to send a couple of my men to do it either. No, she wanted to do it herself. Or, as she liked to say, _What's the point?_

Did I really want the mother of my child, this whitebread girl I so foolishly love, to chase after low-lifes and criminals? No, of course not. But truth is, she was good at it, in her own hapless_, I Love Lucy _sort of way, so who am I to tell her to change? I'm smart enough not to walk in Joe Morelli's footsteps. Steph is Steph, gotta love who she is, not who she'd be if only this or that could be changed.

I got out of the car and leaned on the fender. Steph marched up to me, said, "Yo."

I said, "Yo yourself" - I know my lines - and since I couldn't kiss her here on the street I reached out and tucked a crazy curl behind her ear, gently brushing my knuckles over her jaw as I finished.

She said, "What's up?"

"I brought lunch." I motioned to the car and, always up for food, Steph squinted through the window, then looked quizzically up at me. I added, "Ella thinks we need some time alone together. She packed a picnic."

Steph said neutrally, "How romantic."

"Yeah, well."

Steph smiled wide and my heart clenched. _The time wasted on a picnic was worth it. _Then she glanced down the road and said, "That was my skip who just drove off: Sheemon Duane Rassmussin, GTA, FTA."

_GTA - grand theft auto, great._ Vinnie and I were gonna have a talk soon.

To Steph I just said, "I figured."

"It didn't occur to you to stop him?"

"Babe."

"Babe, what, Ranger?"

I said, "I did something better." I handed her a small GPS device. "I put a tracker on the vehicle. This way we can have a nice healthy lunch" -she scowled- "and then you, or we, can go get the guy at your convenience."

"You had a tracker with you?" asked Steph.

I smiled at her. "Always prepared. The SEALs motto."

She said, "That's the Boy Scouts. And besides you weren't a SEAL."

?

"Were you?" she whispered.

I ignored her question, way too complicated. No, I never was a SEAL, exactly, because I was never in the Navy, but I was never really a soldier either, though I was/ am? a commissioned Army officer with a rank and a uniform and medals and stuff. I was, I am, an operator or operative, a clandestine agent, a black work assassin. And a mercenary, of course. But I had passed the SEALs training courses just like I'd passed the Rangers courses and other Spec Ops training. Before I became whoever the hell I am these days. But at least she didn't ask if I was a Boy Scout. (I wasn't, do I need to tell you that?)

I said, "What_ev_er," mimicking Julie, my preteen daughter. "Are you going to argue with the man who just tagged your nemesis's vehicle?"

She punched my bicep lightly and gave me the Miss America smile. She said, "Actually I could just kiss you!"

_Yeah, yeah. Get in line…._ "Okay."

A few breathless moments later, when I had totally lost track of hostile Stark Street eyes watching and god knows what else, she leaned back a little and whispered against my mouth, "So Ranger, how about you feed me and then show me how this gadget works?"

"Gadget?"

Evil Steph grin. She pressed close against me. "Maybe later, Ranger." She waved the handheld GPS module in my face.

Oh. That gadget. Too bad.

"Can I at least help pick up the skip?"

"I don't need help."

"Yes but I need a break from being an office drone."

"Oooh. The picnic is a ploy to get out of all the paperwork, is it? Tired of counting your ill-got millions, sweetie?" Steph teased.

I shrugged. I loved when she teased me. No one else ever did — they were mostly too scared. As if! _Yeah, more Julie-speak, she visits a lot these days…._

I walked her around to the passenger side of my car, opened the door and she slid in, looking happily at the big canvas L L Bean bag full of Ella's great food. She said, "Ok, Ranger, you can help."

_Thank god._

She added, "I don't want you to get computer ass."

"Excuse me?"

"You know, from too much sitting. Your butt will get fat and flat, it'll get _wide_!"

She giggled.

I started the car and growled, "You'll pay for that, babe.'

"Oh goody.''

**tbc**


	7. Chapter Six Make It Or Break It

**The Price is Right**

**Chapter Six ~ Make It Or Break It **

**The NSA agent finished the Power Point briefing** and the lights came up. The conference room was windowless and supposedly totally secure, though I was betting it was internally bugged. On one side of the conference table sat the director of the NSA - National Security Advisory - a middle aged bureaucrat named Walter Maitland. With him was one of our less than favorite army generals and some assorted hangers on. The NSA is loosely the military or DoD [Department of Defense]'s intelligence - and I use that term loosely too - branch and these people were all connected not to the underworld of the CIA, for example, or the overt defense of the US like Homeland Security or even the regular armed forces. No these guys fell somewhere in between. Into the cracks, you might wanna say.

On my left sat Tank, looking wonderfully street thuggish today in his Rangeman black, accessorized with a blank-eyed scowl. On my right was Ranger who was wearing Armani and looking hot. Because I had been invited along as a monetary issues advisor, even I myself had dressed up for this meet. Remember me? My name is Anthony Stewart and I wore cammo cargoes and a RMPMC long-sleeved black tee under an old FBI Task Force flak vest and black Bates boots instead of my more customary ratty shorts and surfboard logo wifebeater and flipflops. I looked hot too. If I do say so myself.

Now Ranger was broadcasting politely puzzled vibes and saying nothing.

Director Maitland finally caved and ground out, "Well?"

Ranger said, "You don't need Rangeman for this job, any spec ops crew can set a few cakes of Semtex around and…." _Blow things up_, he left unsaid. "Even a crew of Navy SEALS could do it," he added. "They're supposed to be demolitions experts."

Maitland said, "We do not want the military involved."

Ranger glanced at me and then Tank. _We thought you __were__ the military, dude,_ ran through my mind and Ranger's eyes narrowed on mine.

Ranger said, "Let me recap: you want me to accept a contract to go to a thus far unspecified place and blow up this building. Which appears to be a mosque?"

Maitland looked relieved, poor guy. "Yes. Exactly."

Ranger asked, "Why?"

The general said, "You don't get to ask why, mister. You just take orders."

_How rude!_

Ranger said, "Uh huh."

I decided to get involved and said, "So, like where is this mosque anyway?"

Maitland said, "You don't need to know."

_"Dude."_

Ranger said, "To continue the recap: you want us to blow up an unspecified house of worship for unknown reasons, in an unknown place. As soon as possible. With no strings attached."

He meant these guys wanted "plausible deniability". _Get real._

"And you're willing to pay us to do that."

Tank rumbled out, "Hard to blow up a place you don't know where the fuck it is. Sirs."

The mosque was still projected on the white wall across the room. It looked vaguely familiar to me, I have that total recall thing going, you know.

I said, "Rangeman, that sure looks like that mosque on First Street in Baltimore." I dredged the name out of the depths of my memory banks. "Congregation Heart of Islam Mosque and School."

Ranger and Tank both said, "Baltimore?"

The general turned red and Maitland went pale.

Okay, now we knew why the US military and CIA were being kept out of this: they don't do that stuff on American soil, or so they say.

Ranger finally said, "I don't blow up mosques. Or churches. Or nursery schools."

In my head I could hear him screaming _Are you out of your freaking minds!_ But his handsome face stayed dialed somewhere between _blank_ and _serene._

One of the NSA flunkies said, "It's not a nursery school." Ranger fixed him with the dead-eyed glare and the poor man quailed.

Tank growled, "_No schools_."

Maitland said, "We have every reason to believe a terrorist cell is operating out of that building. If you set the charges for the right time - say during evening prayers - you'll stop them dead."

_So to speak._

Ranger said, "No."

Maitland stood up and leaned his pasty white hands on the shiny mahogany table top. _Eeeuuuw, cheap guy-manicure, yuck._ And he leaned way over trying to get into Ranger's space. Maitland said, "Whaddya mean _No_? You don't get to say no."

"I am saying No. Think about the innocent bystanders, think about the innocent men there saying their prayers, think about the - who knows — janitor? Pizza delivery guy? What if there are evening classes with kids? Not to mention, many of those people are probably law abiding US citizens."

The General said, "Collateral damage," and we - the Rangeman contingent - all stared in disbelief. He added, "That's an order, Colonel Manoso." And our disbelief got so big even Ranger's eyes widened a fraction.

"You don't want to go there, general." Ranger pointedly did not say _sir_.

Ranger's military rank was murky at best, as were mine and Tank's and our other guys. Sure, Ranger was a full bird colonel - retired though, again sort of…. And the military usually gave him the courtesy of the rank and its privileges and god knows everyone obeys Ranger no matter what rank they call him. Or even if they just call him Boss. The point is, he wasn't really _their _colonel, if you know what I'm saying here. And if he _was_, the whole premise of non-official military involvement trotted pertly out the proverbial barn door.

The General said, "Just remember, I made you, and I can damn well break you."

_Huh?_

_I'd love to see you try_, thought Ranger, my own mind catching his thought. The snort that came from my left was Tank smothering a laugh, I was pretty sure. We, meaning the Rangeman group, all stood up -'_cos why hang around for this demented bullshit, right? - _and Maitland flopped back in his chair, looking bug-eyed and wretched.

He said, "Manoso. This is crucial. It has to be done."

Ranger made a tiny gesture with his hand and Tank and I both sat again.

"Maitland, this is how it works. First, you call off your pet lapdog general." The General huffed with anger. "Second, I shouldn't have to keep explaining this to you people but here it is. Again. I'm a mercenary, I don't take orders. I don't take threats or bribes and I don't take credit cards. I take requests. And I take cash." His eyes cut to the general who looked like he might stroke out. _Geez we shoulda brought Bobby, we may need a medic._

Ranger didn't wait for a reply. He went on. "_If_ your agency can show us intell implicating certain men at that mosque, _if _you can show me some evidence of terrorist activity, I will take the private contract to remove those persons. In a discreet and timely manner. The fee is -" he named a wildly extravagant sum, Ranger was pissed - "per man. But otherwise I think you all have me — and my company - confused with something out of a bad _Die Hard_ remake."

He looked at me. I shrugged. "_Mission Impossible_, man?" I offered.

Tank said, "_Top Gun_, " and we all did double-takes.

"Whatever," said Ranger.

He waited but the NSA group had no answer at that moment.

He added, "Tank, Antonio. We can go."

"Wait!"

We looked back from the doorway. Maitland was begging now, hands open beseechingly. He said quickly, "Yes. Ok. I - I am sure your method will be safer. Expensive. But - "

Ranger repeated, "Incontrovertible evidence, please. And prompt wire transfers, US dollars of course. You have my numbers."

**tbc**

**a/n if you have any issues with the guys' ESP please read the intro quotes from JE, in the prolog. enjoy.**


	8. Chapter Seven The Crush

**The Price is Right **

_**

* * *

**_

_**previously on The Price is Right:**_ I smiled at her and her eyes widened a little and she caught her breath. Good to know that even hardass CIA ladies are susceptible sometimes. And I left

**CIA Director Alison Marshall looked at his retreating back**, sure that she detected that military Special Forces combination of honed muscles and huge ego. The door clicked shut quietly."Can we afford to use him, Peter?"

"We can't afford not to, ma'am."

* * *

**Chapter Seven ~ The Crush**

**The mercenary known as Carlos Manoso** had not debriefed DCI [Director of Central Intelligence aka CIA Director] Alison Marshall in regard to the success of his mission but the intell that was filtering in informed her that the job had been accomplished swiftly and with wonderfully subtle perfection. The phrase _wonderfully subtle perfection_ stuck in her mind, creating as it did the image of the man himself, front and center in her heated imagination. Well, maybe _subtle_ wasn't right; the man was drop-dead gorgeous, stunning as a film star, he looked like most film stars wished they could look, despite the anomaly of his clandestine profession.

She smiled. Maybe drop-dead was a better adjective. After all, Carlos Manoso was an assassin, was he not?

Marshall drifted off for a moment, remembering Manoso's smooth brown skin and long silky hair; the black Spanish eyes and the mouth that was made for kisses, not for sarcastic verbal jousts. She took a moment to wonder what he looked like under his absurdly expensive tailoring: was he lean and wiry or all satiny ripped muscles? All that warm young man flesh - _mmmm. _And would his — equipment - -live up to the promise of his hard eyes and big shoulders?

She caught herself picturing Ranger naked - that's what everyone seemed to call him, _Ranger _- and she flushed, a trifle embarrassed even though she was alone in her office. _Hormones!_ she shrugged, thinking, _Omigod, Allie, you are 58 years old! Probably you're older than his mother! _But then she told herself that she was still in great shape, she worked out, she colored her grey hair, she "took care of herself." _And maybe he wasn't as young as he looked; his eyes held a wealth of experience_, she thought.

Following that line of conjecture, she decided to find out exactly how old he really was. She powered up her encrypted computer and typed in his name: **Ricardo Carlos Manoso.** In seconds a blue screen with a Presidential seal came up and the words,

**File Sealed By Order of the President of the United States of America **

**Top Secret/ Need to know only.**

_Well, I __need__ to know! _she thought. And tried her override code. Her screen went blank and shut down. _Oh! That was unusual! Even a little scary!_

After a couple minutes to compose herself, she called in the man who had introduced her to Manoso. Supervisory Agent Peter Harriman appeared in her doorway a few seconds later.

Marshall said, "The operation using your friend Colonel Manoso went well, I hear."

Harriman nodded. "I'm sure it did, that's why he gets the big bucks, ma'am."

"Do we have a file on the colonel?"

"File?"

"Yes, a personnel file? With his-particulars?"

Harriman looked at her a bit oddly. "Particulars?" He shook his head. "No, ma'am. There's never a file on Ranger. He'd be very—um—unhappy—if he thought we had a file."

Marshall backed off. After all, maybe it'd be better to go right to the source.

"Do we have a number where we can reach him?"

Harriman opened his cell phone address book and read it off.

"Thank you, Peter. That will be all."

… … ... ...

**Stephanie sat in Ranger's big comfy office chair** and leaned back, sighed. He was late for their "lunch appointment" and she was getting tired of waiting. She knew he'd try his best to get home though. Sometimes, with two busy careers and a precocious preschooler, they were forced to either make appointments for some private, one-on-one time or settle for no intimacy at all. And Stephanie Plum had not married Ranger Manoso to settle for No Intimacy. She put her boots up on his desk and leaned way back, lost in her memories.

She was jolted out of her fond reveries when the phone beeped loudly then the answering machine picked up. This was Ranger's direct government line; it didn't go through the Rangeman switchboard. And she could hear the entire message, beginning with Ranger's flat voice saying, _Manoso. Leave a message_. Steph leaned forward, planning to switch off the sound because she respected his privacy and after all she _really _didn't want to know the details of that part of his life.

But a woman began speaking, her voice soft and sultry. _Carlos, this is Alison — well, you know who I am. I wanted to thank you for what you did for me…and I — well, I feel we kind of got off on the wrong foot. I'd like to mend fences. giggle And get to know you better. Maybe — maybe we can do lunch? Call me._

_Oh ick! _thought Stephanie.

… … … ...

**Steph was seated at my desk**, her hand poised over the answering machine's stop button, her face frozen in disbelief. With Tank hard on my heels I strode across the office and picked up the call, cutting off Marshall's innuendo-laden voice. Stephanie noticeably jumped when my hand reached under hers and I punched up the live talk function of the phone. Giving Steph what I hoped was a reassuring smile, I said, "Director Marshall. Sorry I didn't pick up right away, I had stepped out for a moment."

"Oh! Well, hello."

"Hello, Director Marshall, what can I do for you today?"

"Well, um. I am informed your contract was fulfilled with all due diligence."

I didn't answer. What's to discuss? The job was done, the money was in my bank, end of subject. After a brief pause she gave a little laugh and said, "Well of course it was! But that's not why I called."

Stephanie pushed the chair back and started to get up to leave. I grabbed her wrist gently and making a _shhh_ motion with my free hand, gesturing that she should stay. Tank sat on the desk corner and watched, silent too.

Marshall went on, "I was hoping that you could meet me for lunch in the next few days….?"

"If it's about a job, you need to go through secure channels."

"No! Not a job, exactly. More of a -fact finding mission, I guess you could say."

Tank handed me a yellow Post-It that said_: $$$?_

I said, "Facts are not a currency I recognize, Madam Director."

"Colonel Manoso—" Steph's eyebrows went up, she isn't used to hearing me called Colonel, "Look, can I call you Ranger? Or do you prefer Carlos?" I thought, _I don't care what you call me, as long as you pay me US dollars in cash_. Oblivious, Marshall continued, "And you don't have to call me Madam Director in private, you can call me Alison. Or, um, my friends call me Allie."

"You're on a speaker phone in my office, ma'am."

"Oh! Well, in that case, down to the nitty-gritty, so to speak. Lunch? Soon?"

Tank, Steph and I exchanged glances. ?/?/?/.

I said, "What did you have in mind?"

"Perhaps _Chez Patrice_ on Friday? They know me there, we'll get a good table. And their chef is to die for."

_I don't think so._

_Chez Patrice_ is a French bistro in the heart of DC's political arena. _Everyone_ would see us. I said, "Too high profile."

"Well, I could get away and meet you in New York, maybe at _Bolud_?"

"Ma'am, I don't think either of us want our faces plastered on the Page Six gossip column of the NY Post. Do we?"

She sighed. "No."

I figured I'd better take over, this lunch had clusterfuck written all over it. "Okay, here's the plan. I'll meet you at the Farmers' Market in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, on Friday at 1 PM. I'll buy you a funnel cake."

Steph and Tank gaped at me, then Steph looked pissed. I was guessing because I offered to buy what was essentially a huge deep-fried wad of sugared dough, like the mother of all donuts, for someone other than herself. As opposed to being mad that I was meeting another woman. I added, "Do you have your own car? Not a government vehicle?"

Marshall said, "Of course I do! I wasn't always the head of the CIA, you know. In fact, sometimes I _still _am not the DCI, I'm a woman too, you know."

Tank and Steph did Burg eye rolls then Steph mimed the gag-me gesture with a finger down her throat.

I said, "Ditch your security detail and dress casually. Come alone."

"Sure, Ranger." She sounded inappropriately giddy and added, " Or is it—Carlos?"

I waited in silence.

She confirmed. "Friday at 1 PM."

"Yes ma'am."

"Allie, remember?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't forget my funnel cake," she purred.

I reached out and cut off the line with no reply.

Silence, silence. _Why did I ever swear I like silence?_

Finally Tank said portentously, "Strange things are a-foot at the Circle-K."

_Great, my right hand guy who I am supposed to trust implicitly is now quoting lines from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. What're we, back in middle school?_

Steph giggled. She said, "Omigod, Ranger! I think that woman has the hots for you!"

She and Tank cracked up. I did my best death glare which made them laugh even harder.

I said coldly, "She is an elder statesman."

Tank gasped, "Oh geez, oh yeah, she's at least ten years older than your mom!"

"Leave my mother out of this."

That set the Funnybone twins off again.

"If you two are finished laughing at my expense, maybe you have work to do? Tank?"

"Sure, boss, have fun." Tank waggled his eyebrows at me and disappeared.

When we were alone I looked at Steph, who was wiping tears of laughter out of her eyes. I sat on my desk in front of her and said, "Babe…."

Steph said, "Well I guess we shouldn't laugh. It's not your fault, is it? I mean even my grandma said any living woman between the ages of 8 and 80 would want to _do you_."

"Surely not eight."

"Well, she liked how it sounded and I bet when Zoë's eight all her little girlfriends are gonna think Zoë's daddy is smokin' hot." She started laughing again.

"Give me a break here, babe."

"Why don't you give me an explanation instead about why you're meeting this woman when you're supposed to be taking me and Zoë for a bucolic Pennsylvania road trip weekend," she suggested carefully, trying to stifle her amusement.

"Babe, you just want to go to Hershey to smell the chocolate!"

"Well I want a hotdog and a funnelcake at the flea market too! So don't spend all your money on that woman."

"I'll spend all my money on my girls," I said and kissed her.

…. … … …

**Marshall hung up the phone and sat for a moment** in an exuberant fog. Oooh! He wanted to meet her somewhere secluded, maybe they could extend the day into the evening, into the weekend. There were lots of adorable historic bed and breakfasts down there in Amish country, weren't there?

She heaved a big sigh and fanned her excited, flushed cheeks.

"Everything Ok in here, ma'am," said Harriman unexpectedly, causing Marshall jump about a foot off her chair. Harriman looked at her quizzically. _Great, now he's going to think I was having a hot flash!_ Then, _Well I was, but not the kind he was thinking of._

Marshall reached down and grabbed her purse out of its locked drawer. She said, "Everything is fine but I have to leave early."

"Sure," said Harriman.

… … … ...

"**Hey, boss. We followed the DCI home** like you told us. Everything seems fine."

Peter Harriman was relieved. For a few moments there he thought she was under duress of some kind and he had sent an extra security detail to guard her.

"Good. Thanks for letting me know, James."

"Yeah, she just went to the mall, Pete. I guess even CIA directors like Victoria's Secret undies."

_Eeeuuuuw._ "The DCI does not wear 'undies', my man."

Agent James said, "Well, she went into the shop, stayed for an hour and came out with a big version of their famous little pink bag."

"Huh."

"Then she went to the wine store and bought four bottles of champagne." Harriman heard paper rustling. "Let me see, I wrote it down…_Ruinard Blush-'o7_? Ring a bell? Because it sure rang up a huge bill in the shop!"

"You tailed her inside?"

"Yeah, just to be safe. She's pretty oblivious, didn't make me. Didn't notice me at all. Then she went home."

"Ok. Thanks again. You can knock off for the night."

… …. … ….

**In the privacy of her bedroom**, Marshall scrutinized herself bedecked in her Victoria's Secret treasures. She wore a lacy demi-cup Wonderbra with a front hook and a matching black lace thong.

She examined herself closely in the three-way mirror. The black set off her ivory skin nicely and her nipples showed enticingly pink through the bra's lace. She was her own worst critic but she thought she looked damn fine for a woman who'd turn 60 in less than 18 months. _Those hours in the gym -and elsewhere - with her very personal trainer had paid off_, she thought with satisfaction.

Surely even a young man like Colonel Manoso, no - Ranger! or Carlos - she shivered with excitement and hugged herself, _even his name was exotic!_ - would find her desirable. Maybe he even liked older ladies, what do they call them, cougars?

Marshall was sure she could take Carlos—and herself to sensual heights he'd never dreamed of.

… … … …

**The day was sunny and warm, perfectly May-like**. Steph and Ranger trailed hand-in-hand through the huge antiques flea market, poring over other peoples' trash and treasures. On the far side of the parking field there was a wonderful shady playground where Zoë ran off her overabundant energy under the eyes of Ella's second in command, a Swedish au pair named Britta.

They would meet up for lunch at the adjacent Farmers' Market soon but not before Ranger surreptitiously bought Stephanie an Edwardian diamond and platinum bracelet that was studded with sapphires the color of her eyes. Ranger knew he should bargain and god knows no one was better at haggling than he was, but with one eye on the bracelet and the other on Stephanie who was examining porcelain dolls as if contemplating buying one for Zoë, he hurriedly checked the piece's hallmarks and gave the dealer a wad of cash.

"Thank you, sir!"

Ranger nodded and shoved the jewelry into a cargo pocket, then quickly caught up with Steph.

"Aren't these beautiful? Wouldn't Zoë love one? And Valerie's girls too! So much nicer than those American Girl dolls."

"Babe, these dolls are over a hundred years old, they're very fragile and the prices start in the thousands."

"Of dollars!"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Too bad." She looked longingly at a French bebe, a little-girl doll with blond ringlets and real teeth and pierced ears, dressed in blue silk and old lace. The large bisque doll even retained its blue kid high buttoned shoes. And it was big. Ranger was willing to guess its price was over 5 grand. Stephanie sighed. _Maybe he shoulda got her the doll instead of diamonds, _thought Ranger. _Who knew tomboy Stephanie Plum would love antique dolls._

Stephanie smiled at him though and grabbed his hand. "C'mon, hotshot! You have a woman to meet, then funnel cakes to buy for everyone."

"Yeah. Remember the plan. When she walks up to me, if I buzz your cell, you send Zoë to my rescue."

"It's a friggin' shame to use a four year old child as a shield, sweetie."

"Pictures are worth a thousand words, babe, and she'll get the picture fast when Zoë does her daddydaddydaddy bit. Then she'll say: _C'mon, Mommy is waiting_ and point to you. When Marshall sees you, you do your cute little finger wave thing and smile big-time."

Steph was quiet for a minute. "Maybe she'll be embarrassed? Maybe it's wrong to humiliate her."

?

"After all, it really isn't her fault that she thinks you're gorgeous. And hot. And amazing. And she has no way of knowing that you're married with a child."

"Babe, she's older than my mom."

"But…."

"No. She tried to hack into my personal Top-Secret file. Antonio caught the intrusion right away. She wants to seduce me and then control me. There isn't a bone in that shark's body that deserves your compassion or concern, Steph."

Steph thought, _There's that hopeless, helpless part of every woman who sees Ranger and wants him, he doesn't really get it._

Out loud she said, "Ok but—let her down nicely, please? Introduce us, buy her that funnel cake. Make nice, it can't hurt and it might help."

_Kill 'em with kindness, the way of the Burg,_ thought Ranger. He kissed Steph's cheek and said, "She said she wanted to get to know me better so here I am with my family, instant get-to-know. Real polite and friendly. Okay?"

"Sure."

…. … …. …

**Marshall wore a silk shirt and jeans **and a classy straw sunhat. When she waved and greeted Colonel Manoso, he responded politely, simply saying, "Good afternoon, ma'am."

She smiled up at him and touched his shoulder. She started to say, "It's Allie, remember, not…"

But she was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a tiny black-haired whirlwind who shrieked, "Daddydaddydaddy!" and flung herself into Manoso's arms.

"I have ice cream, daddy."

"Before lunch, sweetheart?"

"Uh huh! Mommy said ice cream is the base of my food pyramid and I should enjoy! What's a food pyramid?"

"It's...I'll explain later, chica. Say hello to Ms Marshall now. Madam Director, this is my daughter, Zoë."

Of course she was, she looked exactly like him and the two of them were drawing a lot of attention, attracting smiling faces, admiring stares. Ranger wore dark khaki cargoes and an incongruously pastel golf shirt under a rumpled linen blazer that Marshall had no doubt covered his guns and cost a fortune. The child wore a candy pink and white checked sundress with big pockets that were shaped like green and pink watermelons. The watermelons had tiny black buttons for "seeds" . She had fluffy pink barrettes in her mop of curls and she wore little red Converse All-Stars sneakers with lace-edged tiny white socks and the teeniest tiny diamond studs, just little specks of bling in her tiny pierced ears.

The child caught her looking and said, "Mommy chose my outfit. She said she didn't wanna lose me in the crowd!" The rose pink lower lip pouted in the child's exquisite face, but her eyes laughed and invited Marshall to share in the joke of Mommy's bad taste.

"You look beautiful, baby. Mind your manners and say hello to Ms Marshall." Ranger's quiet voice held just the tiniest breath of steel. Zoë held out her hand to have it shook and said politely, "Hello, Ms Marshall. Do you like ice cream best? Or funny cakes?"

Marshall smiled at the child and said, "I admit to loving both, Zoë."

The child nodded with serious agreement then said, "Mommy is over there! By the hotdog stand!" She squirmed in Ranger's arms and pointed out her mother. Stephanie, as ordered, smiled and waved. "Mommy says you should please join us for lunch. Because you wanted to make friends with my daddy. Ok?"

Ranger said, "Yes, join us. I owe you that funnel cake, ma'am."

"And after we have hotdogs with mustard and sow-kraut and french-fries and lemonade and funny cakes and more ice cream and maybe some butter-dipped corn on the cob, oh and some cotton candy!-we are gonna go to Play Land and ride the rides! Daddy and I looove the rollercoaster. We go again and again and again!"

Marshall noted with unkind satisfaction that Manoso was looking a trifle green. She smiled, then grinned wide at Ranger. "I'm not sure that you planned the day with your customary efficiency and due diligence, Carlos."

Manoso smiled back at her, the tension leaving their encounter. Next to Marshall a woman dropped a huge icy Jumbo Pink lemonade and gasped at the sight of Ranger's 100% real, zillion watt smile.

They all laughed and jumped out of the way, only getting splashed a little.

Marshall said, "No. I think the flea market is calling my name." Zoë cocked her head and listened, looked puzzled. "Enjoy your day, Zoë. And you too, Carlos. Enjoy. Say hello to your mom for me, okay, Zoë?" And Marshall disappeared into the happy throngs.

…. …. ….. ….

**Late that night in their palatial suite** at the Sheridan outside Reading, while Zoë and the au pair snored lightly in the other bedroom, a sleekly naked Ranger kissed satisfied and sweaty Stephanie again and slipped the diamonds around her wrist.

"What! Why?" asked Steph.

"So you'll always remember that I love you, babe."

**tbc**


	9. Chapter 8 Crushed

**The Price is Right**

* * *

**Chapter Eight ~ Crushed**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Alison Marshall, director of the CIA**, poured out the rest of the second bottle of blush champagne and sighed.

She asked her companion, "Should we open another?"

The woman sitting opposite her on her candlelit deck smiled and shrugged. "Let's see how it goes."

On the way home from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Marshall had hesitated then called the new Secretary of Homeland Security, Elaine Hamilton. And invited her over for a late Friday night drink. Well, there _was_ all that champagne, might as well use it, might as well drown her sorrows and humiliation with a few drinks. But embarrassed as she was, Marshall didn't really want to sit around and drink alone. So she had called Hamilton who seemed pleased and agreed to drop by around _nine-ish_.

Hamilton was the closest thing to a real girlfriend or pal that Marshall had. Not that many women wanted to be BFF - _best friends forever!_ - with either the head of the CIA or the Secretary of HLS, so the two women had formed a camaraderie that was slowly developing into a real friendship.

At least Marshall hoped it was.

The women sipped in silence and enjoyed the late spring evening air. Marshall's home was near the water in suburban Virginia and while the summers were hot and damp, springtime was pretty good if she loaded herself up on Claritin and Kleenex. Pesky allergies_...sigh_.

Hamilton said, "It's a nice night."

Her voice clashed with Marshall's saying, "Over the last couple of days I've been a total fool."

The women both stopped and then Hamilton said, "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. You've been a fool, Allie? How so? I never noticed the difference, you seemed normal to me. Of course we only saw each other on Monday, at the presidential briefing. Soooo…what's up?" Her voice seemed sincere and only a little tipsy.

Marshall shook her head, glad that the evening's darkness and the flickering candles hid her blush.

Hamilton said, "Oh, c'mon. You know you want to tell me! " _Otherwise why would you invite me over and serve me big bucks champagne? _Hamilton saw them as more colleagues than girlfriends but she liked Marshall okay and she was lonely at the top, too, just like Marshall.

Marshall said, "You promise not to tell a soul?"

_Grade school revisited_, thought Hamilton, but she nodded and promised.

"You remember that new operative we are using? The mercenary?"

"Geez, Allie, I'm old, not dead! Of course I remember! Besides, he was at another meeting the other week, giving the NSA-meaning poor Walter Maitland and General Abernathy-hell. Plus he busted my chops big-time 'cos I didn't pay fast enough on that initial op."

Marshall was wide-eyed. "You tried to stiff him on a fee?"

"Well I was hoping to get some Senate funding committee to pay him but in the end I had to dip into our black budget.

"What was the job?"

"Oh, sister! I can't tell you, you don't need to know, now do you?"

Marshall narrowed her eyes at Hamilton but Hamilton just said, "Oh, go on! Open the next bottle and tell all!"

Marshall said, "Ok, so the man is hot, am I right?"

"I _said_ we aren't dead. Of course he's hot." Hamilton grinned "Wouldn't you just love to see him without all those clothes? Luscious! _Mmm-mmmm!_ Has to be something awesome."

"That's where the fool part comes in, Elaine. I had the same idea but I was so fucking stupid, I acted on my fantasy."

Hamilton sipped champagne and stared. "What happened?"

Marshall described her call to Manoso, her trip to Victoria's Secret, the stock-up of this champagne. Ditching her security detail and taking her little blue BMW Z6. The gloriously exciting drive early this morning, all the way to Lancaster PA. " _Pee Ay, Lainie!"_

Marshall went on, "I got out of my car. I walked through the market, already turned-on I guess you could say—is there a more modern slang for that?" Hamilton shrugged and made a _go on_ motion with her wine flute.

"I walked through the crowds, the silk of my shirt rubbing against my breasts, my nipples all hard and pointy. My jeans were tight and maybe," she dropped her voice and whispered, "a little damp , you know what I mean, girlfriend?"

Nod.

"And there he was across the field. He looked amazing, all casual chic, he really does look like a model or a movie star! But with the guns. And the hair and the eyes and the mouth - oh! - the whole exotic everything. And so I walked up to him, said hello."

Hamilton was bouncing. "Yay! Go for it , girl. Yay! Cougars rule!'

Marshall thought Hamilton maybe had had enough champagne, but she bravely finished. "He said _hello_. And then he introduced me to his daughter. His wife was there too."

Hamilton squealed, "No! No way! That man is not married with a rug rat."

"Oh yes he is. And the child is no rug rat, she's adorable, beautiful - looks exactly like him. But talks a mile a minute. Really cute."

"How old is she?"

"I dunno. Little. But verbal. Three or four? Like a little freakin' doll.

"And the wife?"

"Beautiful, too, of course. Sweet face, looked Italian maybe. Young, Omigod, _young._ Late twenties? Thirty? Tall slim brunette. Tight jeans, high heeled boots, major diamond rings, I could see them from the other side of the fairway. She was on line to buy hotdogs."

Silence while both women contemplated being young and fit enough to actually eat a hotdog. Then Hamilton prodded, "So what happened then?"

"Nothing. There he was with his perfect all-American family, nice manners, cordial. I felt like a fool, like an asshole. A deluded, middle-aged, asshole."

"Do you think he knew?"

"Knew?"

"Ya think he knew you were there to shag him? That you were hot for him?"

"I couldn't tell. The little girl was distracting and he was just very polite. Even—nice. Is that awful? The hot, scary mercenary was - _nice._" Marshall leaned her head in her free hand and groaned.

"Oh god, Allie. Poor you, "said Hamilton, trying hard not to laugh out loud.

The women sat in silence again for awhile. Then Hamilton said, "So Carlos Manoso actually has a wife and kid. This is a goldmine, Allie! Forget your silly ego and think! How can we use this?"

"Use it?"

"Yeah. You ever hear that old saying about a mule and using a stick or a carrot to motivate it? Well, Manoso's carrot is money, a lot of money! But now he just handed us a great big stick, no more carrot for that man."

Marshall was shocked. "I'm a middle-aged fool. I'm embarrassed. But I'm not an idiot and I do not have a death wish!"

Hamilton giggled. _It was scary,_ Marshall thought. And Hamilton said, "This is going to be perfect!"

Marshall finished her champagne in silence, mentally going over her wardrobe and choosing what she would wear to her own funeral.

**tbc**


	10. Chapter 9 Sometimes Plans Go Awry

_**The Price is Right **_

* * *

_When we left Secretary of HLS Elaine Hamilton, she was saying, "__So Carlos Manoso actually has a wife and kid. How can we use this?" _

_Marshall was shocked. "I'm a middle-aged fool. I'm embarrassed. But I'm not an idiot and I do not have a death wish!"_

_Hamilton giggled. "This is gonna be perfect!"_

* * *

_**And enterprises of great pith and moment,**_

_**With this regard, their currents turn awry, **_

_**And lose the name of action. " **_

_**Hamlet's soliloquy/ Wm Shakespeare**_

* * *

**_Chapter Nine ~ Sometimes Plans Go Awr_y**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Zoë wanted an Italian ice **after ballet class. My own sweet tooth warred with what I perceived as The Right Thing for a mom to do and of course my sweet tooth won that battle. Zoë has her daddy's metabolism so she is slim and energetic and at age four I really refuse to obsess about every little thing she eats. God knows how many calories she just used up at ballet. I know I was exhausted and I just sat there watching. So we ditched our bodyguards a block from Rangeman and sent them home ahead while Zoë and I had a lemon ice.

I knew better than to invite them along and feed Ranger's men ice cream. He may tolerate his princess eating that stuff but for the guys, he had rules. The two hot young men laughed and said they'd wait outside. Of course they would. Another of Ranger's rules was that Zoë was never left unprotected. Never. Not ever. Like presidential Secret Service guards, these men would die for this little girl before they'd let her come to harm. And with Ranger "off-line" this week, the entire Rangeman crew was being extra vigilant.

That was what made the following events so upsetting.

Anyway Zoë and I sat in the little pizza parlor eating our ices and sharing a slice. Diet cokes on the side. I told her it was dinner since her daddy was "out of town" and she smiled and nodded, went back to chattering about the upcoming recital next month and another performance at Christmas. Seems she has her heart set on being the lead fairy in the Nutcracker thingy in December. I vaguely recalled seeing the Nutcracker with Val and my Grandma when I was about ten and I didn't recall any fairies exactly….

"We will be _Sugarplum_ Fairies, mommy."

"Oh! Okay…" _Of course you will, what was I thinking!_

"And my sugar outfit can be pink like cotton candy with silver sparkles...no! Sprinkles? Spangles! And I will have pearly wings and a crown!"

"That's awesome, baby."

"But only if I am the head fairy! Otherwise I will have to be blue or green!"

"Blue is nice."

"I will not be blue, mommy!"

Well, Zoë, I hope—"

"Excuse me. Mrs. Manoso?" A voice interrupted our discussion. We both looked up and saw a classic man-in-black type—not Rangeman black—but a fed-looking guy who was flanked by another guy who looked just the same. Both of them waved credential wallets in my face and said, "We have a message for you from Colonel Manoso."

"Omigod, did something—" I cut myself off, aware of Zoë's wide eyes. I forced myself not to hyperventilate or choke on my pizza.

The man made patting motions with his hands and said, "Everything is fine, ma'am. Colonel Manoso is alive and well. We are just his errand guys, bringing you a message."

I really wished he didn't mention Ranger being alive and well in front of Zoë. She was smart enough to extrapolate the underlying message that someday he might _not_ be alive or well. I narrowed my eyes and said coldly, "Can I see the credentials again?"

"Sure."

I looked at the IDs. Agents Wallace and Purcell. The IDs looked good to me but who the heck can tell? I for one knew well that badges and creds were easily purchased online. EBay, anyone? I glanced through the rather grubby window of the little pizza stand and could see the two Rangeman guys flanking the door, alert as always. So I guessed they had let these guys come in. Or the feds came through the back, from the parking lot.

Zoë began a rhythmic kicking against our table's single pedestal. In her sneakers, it was silent but annoying. _bong. bong. bong-bong._

"What do you want?" I asked the men. I sent a tiny frown to Zoë who ignored me.

"We have a message from your husband. He wants you — and the little girl — to come to a safe house that he uses in Deal, on the beach. He has to be in DC for debriefings all next week and he was hoping to see you ladies, spend the weekend at the shore."

"It's October," I said.

"Guess the Jersey shore is pretty nice in October, ma'am."

"Oh mommy! Let's go! Daddy will want to hear all about the ballet play!"

"I don't know…" I mumbled.

"I miss my daddy! Don't you miss him, mommy?"

Of course I did. I nodded. Zoë stared at me hard, her big brown eyes filling with tears. I nodded, said to the two feds, "Ok, sure. Sounds like fun."

One of them said, "We have to leave right away."

"I need to pack…" I said.

"I have to bring my Mr. Cuddles Bear!" chimed in Zoë.

_Huh? Mr. Cuddles Bear?_ Zoë's favorite stuffy was a big grey velveteen elephant named Babar with pink satin ears and a red bowtie.

"No time! We'll just leave through the back door there, the car is waiting."

Zoë and I locked eyes. I nodded and said, "Are you done eating, baby?"

"Uh huh. But, mommy, I have to make a pit stop." I just loved the phrases her Uncle Lester taught her! Pit stop! She jiggled a bit like kids do when they have to go to the bathroom.

"We just have to stop in the little girls' room before we leave," I told the agents.

"No time, ma'am. We'll stop on the road."

"Mommy, I have to go peepee, right NOW!" bellowed my daughter, drawing laughs from the other customers and smiles from the federal agents.

Purcell, I think it was, threw up his hands and said, "Hey! No problem, ladies. We'll wait right here by the door to the parking lot."

I grabbed my purse and Zoë's hand and we scuttled off to the bathroom in the back hall.

… … …

**Purcell watched the mother and child** hurry away and thanked his lucky stars that he was not the proud owner of a rug rat like that. He said to Wallace, "I'm just gonna check in with the boss." He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Madame Secretary. We have the subjects in our control. ETA 2 hours." He hung up. In DC, Secretary of Homeland Security Elaine Hamilton smiled gleefully at CIA director Alison Marshall and said, "I love it when a plan comes together."

"I think you're making a mistake."

"We won't hurt them! We are just — just teaching that arrogant prick Manoso a much needed lesson."

"But….."

Hamilton scoffed. "He thinks he can toy with you? He thinks he can yell at me then leave me on hold like an idiot? He thinks it is okay to hold up the US government for huge amounts of money? I don't think so. He is going to learn that he is not perfect! Or indestructible! That he has weak spots too. Manoso is vulnerable, even if he won't admit it. I can hurt him…and if I must, I will."

"His daughter is maybe 4 years old, Elaine. It's wrong."

"Please. Do the ends justify the means? Don't they always justify the means? We have to be tough, Allie. Tougher than men. We have to be willing to do it all!"

Marshall looked into Hamilton's zealot's eyes and agreed.

… ... ...

**Back in Trenton, Stephanie locked the bathroom door** and leaned against it. Zoë said, "Mommy, those men weren't nice."

"No. Um, do you wanna pee quick?"

"No. I just said that. It seemed like a good idea."

Steph stared at her daughter's pretty face, seeing her Ranger's eyes, eyes that saw everything despite her tiny age. And Steph knew well that the brain behind them was just as smart. She smiled at Zoë and said, "It was a _very _good idea."

Steph dialed her cell phone, calling the Rangeman bodyguards. She whispered, "Two tangos in the pizza parlor, dressed like Billy Bob Thornton."

Brett said, "Who?"

"Men in Black? They had a dog like my Killer? I think his name was Frank—the dog, I mean."

Zoë said, "Frank was a Muppet."

"Shhhh!" said Steph.

"He was a something-tron," insisted Zoë.

In her ear, Brett, the Rangeman guy, said, "Oh. The film? The pug was an animatron?"

"Yeah. Anyway, the two inside the pizza place are bad guys so me and Zoë are climbing out the little window on the north side of the building here. Come into the ally and stand there, I'll hand Zoë down to you. The other one of you should cover the alley from both ends, but they said they're parked in back."

"Ten-four. Coming now," said Brett calmly.

"And call Tank for back up."

"Did it already, Steph."

Stephanie climbed up on the trash can and wrenched open the little frosted window. She boosted up Zoë who scrambled through into the Rangeman guy's waiting arms. "Ok, Steph, got her. " Steph followed suit, going out backwards, wedging her hips through the tiny opening and cursing when she heard her jeans rip."You better not be laughing, Brett," she hissed.

"No, ma'am." His hands grabbed her hips and pulled her on through. The other man, Zero, had Zoë in one arm, his weapon drawn in the other. He watched the alley opening on Haywood and counted, "Three, two, one! Go! Go!" A black Rangeman Explorer pulled up and the rear door was flung open. Steph, Brett and Zero carrying Zoë all ran to the black SUV and piled in. As they pulled away from the alley, their backup arrived in force — not just Rangeman but TPD, too, sirens blasting, lights flashing red-white-and blue.

They drove away to the echoes of "Freeze, freeze, drop your weapons! Freeze."

… ... ...

**A few days later, Ranger held Steph** in his arms. He was home safely and they had made love in front of the blazing fireplace in their big bedroom in the renovated and expanded penthouse loft at Haywood Street. Ranger said, "Your spidey sense came through, babe."

"I know! And Zoë's too — she knew they were wrong."

He nodded and kissed the top of her head, saying nothing.

Stephanie said, "So — any info? Was it just some crazy guys?"

"Not sure yet. I just got back in country a few hours ago, babe."

"But surely Tank was checking?"

"Yeah, he did." Ranger's voice was icy cold, so frigid Stephanie had to suppress a shiver even though his fury was not directed at her. Ranger said, "So far, all we know is that they really are federal agents. Not FBI, Secret Service….And they thought their mission was legit, that I'd be waiting for you both in DC. They knew Deal was a scam, but that's all...and they were horrified when they found out that they'd — crossed me. Or mine. But trust me, babe, I'll find out what happened, who sent them. And someone will pay."

Steph hugged him and after awhile said, "It's okay, we're okay. You don't need to kill anyone, or anything rash like that. Right?"

"Hmmm."

"And just think! Zoë is gonna be the lead fairy in her ballet play!" Stephanie exerted her right to live in denial and looked for happy thoughts.

Ranger let a silence grow, then he said — maybe just a teeny bit sarcastic, Steph thought — "Yeah, babe. Life is good."

tbc

a/n: Zoë and Stephanie have a pet dog, a tiny beige and black Pug named Killer.


	11. Chapter 10 Mr Bear?

**The Price is Right **

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Ten ~ Mr. Bear?**

_a Zo_ë_ and Ranger interlude while Ranger plans the fate of the kidnappers…._

.

.

.

"**So tell me about this Mr. Bear**," I said.

I had returned home from, well, I returned home last night too late to tuck Zoë in at bedtime. But tonight when I slipped into her bedroom she was wide awake and waiting for me. I kissed her forehead and she held her arms up for a hug so I picked her up and we sat down on the big white rocking chair by the window. And I asked her about the bear.

"Daddy. There IS no Mr. Cuddles Bear. I said that so mommy would know something was weird with those men."

"Uh huh." I stretched out my hand and clicked on the reading lamp so I could see her face more clearly. For some unknown reason Zoë was dressed in a long frilly white nightgown; she looked just like Wendy in _Peter Pan_…but with wild curly hair and _café au lait_ skin, heavy on the cream. _She is adorable_, I thought, my heart twisting at the thought of someone hurting her. I added, "That was very smart of you, baby."

Tiny shrug. I added, "And smart that mommy understood."

Zoe nodded. "I knew mommy would know I don't have a Mr. Cuddles Bear. It was a hint. A - a - clue."

I said carefully, "But, baby, I'm not sure I'd know you don't have a Mr. Bear."

"Mr._Cuddles_ Bear, daddy, you have to get the details right so they believe the con." We stared at each other in silence for awhile. "And you wouldn't need a clue, daddy, you'd know for sure the guys were bad."

"What if I wasn't right there, sweetheart?"

"Daddy. You'd still know." Her wide eyes dared me to contradict her.

I said, "I hope I would but maybe we can make that our password, so your mom and I know when there's a problem. How does that sound?"

"Okay, daddy." Her eyes flicked away.

I asked, "What?"

"It will sound silly when I'm a little bigger."

"We can change it when you're older or you could say something like, _Oh mom, remember my old Cuddles Bear, whatever happened to...?_"

She nodded, looking a bit sleepy. We rocked gently for a couple minutes, both lost in our thoughts. Steph had told me not to question too deeply. _She has a great spidey sense, what else? _Steph said last night. But I couldn't just let it go.

I said, "Zoë?"

"Yes, daddy?" Teeny tiny voice.

"How did you know the men were lying?"

She sat up and looked at me hard. I said, "Well?"

And I watched as her eyes did the famous Manoso thousand-yard stare, seeing through me, past me, her face a total blank. I learned to do that through the school of hard knocks, she had it down pat at age 4. It was scary. I gave her a gentle squeeze and her eyes tracked past my ear and up to the ceiling, ended up focused on my nose. She looked slightly cross-eyed. She was distracting me on purpose.

A year or so ago I had told her that I did not want her doing the Burg eye roll at me, or any adults. She said_, Mommy rolls her eyes at you. _And I said if someday she wants to roll her eyes at her boyfriend or husband, fine. _But for now,_ I said, _it was rude and disrespectful._ I'm no strict disciplinarian-type where my kids are concerned, I want them to cooperate because they want to, not because they have to or they're scared of me - so when she looked at me with her wide brown eyes, I had added, _It hurts peoples' feelings. It makes them feel bad._

_Does it make you feel bad, daddy?_

_Yes._

_Then I won't._

_Thank you, baby._

Now though I smiled at her and said, "If you can't tell me without rolling your eyes at me, it's okay. Just this once."

Silence except in my mind a tiny voice saying, _You know why. You know how. Why are you asking me this?_

Finally she said, "They said you were at the shore, at Mr. Alexander's big pink house. Not mommy's Mr. Alexander who does her hair, the other one. You know."

"Did they mention Mr. Ramos by name?"

"No, but that's what they meant."

"Okay. And?"

"And in my mind I could see you, it was sandy like the beach but it was nighttime and you had on your black soldier clothes. And, um - dirt -," she ran her fingers under her eyes miming the black cammo paint we use on our faces, on our cheekbones, to reduce glare. "And the other people were dressed like in _Aladdin_." She paused then whispered, "You were wearing real armor, not like on TV, and you had your rifle with you, I think."

_Holy shit._

"So I knew you were working and not waiting for me and mommy at the beach," she summed up proudly.

"What else did you see? Dream?"

"_Daddy." _Now she did roll her eyes. "It was _not_ a dream. I was at the pizza parlor. It was after ballet. You _know_ it was not a dream."

I waited, noncommittal. Oh, okay, clueless. Because in the predawn hours of the day of the kidnapping attempt, I _had _been somewhere dark and sandy. Dressed in a heavy-weight flak vest, all in black, rifle in hand. And yeah, the tangos were dressed like in _Aladdin._ But still….

"I only do it to make sure you are okay, I don't watch or listen."

Okay, my child has a _great_ imagination. Or my child is an alien. But she's my alien, my beautiful baby alien.

The now-sleepy little voice mumbled into my chest, "I asked Uncle Anthony once and he said it was okay unless it was scary and then don't look. Julie said the same thing, just close the curtain in my mind."

I said nothing. _Deny, deny._

Suddenly she sat up again and her eyes got big. "Are you mad at me, daddy?"

"No."

"It's not a fib! I never tell you a fib, I promise."

"I know, sweetie. I know."

We rocked some more then she said, "You could read me a story til I go to sleep."

"Okay, what are we reading?"

"_Wrinkle in Time."_

"Zoë, you're 4 years old."

"I read everything else."

"Oh okay."

…. …. ….

**A few weeks later I came in from work **and told Stephanie I had to go out of town for a few days.

"Fine, have a safe trip."

She didn't ask but I added, "I have to go to DC for a day or two, then on to Rangeman Atlanta."

Big skeptical blue eyes examined me closely.

I said, "What?"

"Nothing. It's just the last time you told me you were going to Atlanta after a few days' stop in DC, you were all over CNN. In some unknown 'stan place. With the president. The last one, I mean."*

"This trip is entirely in-country, babe. At least to the best of my knowledge at this time."

She nodded. "Don't get shot." _Don't kill anyone unless you have to…._

"Don't get crazy." _Please don't blow up my new Porsche…._

And we kissed.

tbc

_*Mercenaries R Us_


	12. Chapter 11 Omega

**The Price is Right**

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**A/N **-Thank you, Alf for sending me the inspiration story / joke about Rangers vs Special Forces.

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**Chapter Eleven ~ Omega**

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**The first page** in each file read:

**_Rangers vs Special Forces_**

_The Chief of Staff of the Army asked his Sergeant Major, who was both Ranger and Special Forces qualified, which organization he would recommend to form a new anti-terrorist unit. The Sergeant Major responded to the General's question with this parable: If there were a hijacked Boeing 747 being held by terrorists along with its passengers and crew and an anti-terrorist unit formed either by the Rangers or the Special Forces was given a Rescue/Recovery Mission; what would you expect to happen?_

**_Ranger Option_**

_Forces/Equipment Committed: If the Rangers went in, they would send a Ranger company of 120 men with standard army issue equipment._

_Mission Preparation: The Ranger Company First Sergeant would conduct a Hair Cut and Boots Inspection._

_Infiltration Technique: They would insist on double timing, in company formation, wearing their combat equipment, and singing Jody cadence all the way to the site of the hijacked aircraft._

_Actions in the Objective Area: Once they arrived, the Ranger company would establish their ORP, put out security elements, conduct a leaders recon, reapply their face cammo, and conduct final preparations for Actions on the OBJ._

_Results of Operation: The Rescue/Recovery Operation would be completed within one hour; all of the terrorists and most of the passengers would have been killed, the Rangers would have sustained light casualties and the 747 would be worthless to anyone except a scrap dealer._

**_Special Forces Option_**

_Forces/Equipment Committed: If Special Forces went in, they would send only a 12 man team (all SF units are divisible by 12 for some arcane historical reason) however, due to the exotic nature of their equipment the SF Team would cost the same amount to deploy as the Ranger Company._

_Mission Preparation: The SF Team Sergeant would request relaxed grooming standards for the team._

_Infiltration Technique: The team would insist on separate travel orders with Max Per Diem, and each would get to the site of the hijacking by his own means. At least one third of the team would insist on jumping in._

_Actions in the Objective Area: Once they arrived , the SF Team would cache their military uniforms, establish a Team Room, use their illegal Team Fund to stock the unauthorized Team Room Bar, check out the situation by talking to the locals, and have a Team Meeting to discuss the merits of the terrorists' cause._

_Results of Operation: The Rescue/Recovery Operation would take two weeks to complete and by that time all of the terrorists would have been killed, (and would have left signed confessions); the passengers would be ruined psychologically for the remainder of their lives; and all of the women passengers would be pregnant. The 747 would be essentially unharmed, the team would have taken no casualties but would have used up, lost, or stolen all the "high speed" equipment issued to them._

_._

_._

_._

**Ranger looked up from the file**, meeting General MXXX's eyes. Ranger said quietly, "This is a joke." Pause. "A very old joke."

The general nodded but said, "Unfortunately there are a number of people of importance who feel it is a joke with too much truth in it."

Ranger stared at the man in silence.

We were at Rangeman Trenton in the secure conference room, not at a secret locale somewhere in DC. Ranger had impressed upon the government that, since time was always a crucial aspect, he would not be running down to Washington for briefings then schlepping back to Jersey to get into action. General MXXX, the man who had just spoken, was our military handler and he agreed. And everyone thought it was a good idea to keep Ranger a few steps removed from whatever idiot tried to kidnap Steph and Zoë a few weeks ago.

So here we were…the six of us, the core team. Ranger. (Ranger is Ranger, I don't need to explain him to you, do I?) Brown: shooter, medic. Santos: shooter, sniper, recon. Hector Santiago: shooter, close work, commo. Anthony Stewart: shooter, sniper, assassin. Pilot. Moneyman. Computer hacker with limitless skills.

And myself, shooter, second-in command (XO), bodyguard. My name is Pierre "Pete" Thomas, AKA Tank. There _were_ six of us, maybe because of that old Special Forces "divide by 12" thing, maybe just a coincidence. We added personnel as needed, both private contractors like Anthony's sister who was a heli pilot sometimes and guys from Rangeman, especially from the overseas private military contingent. But the six of us were almost always involved unless Ranger was doing a solo gig. Besides all his other talents, Carlos Manoso is a very—um—_gifted _assassin.

Five of us were dressed in what appeared to be Rangeman black fatigues. If you looked closely though you'd see that our uniforms said nothing, just had grey-and-black US flag patches on the left bicep, like the RMPMC uni. [Rangeman Private Military Corporation] Or like military Spec Ops. The sixth member of our team had strolled in five minutes late. Anthony, who was dressed in classic golf attire, collared pastel knit shirt, expensively tailored microfiber khaki shorts with golf gloves sticking out of the hip pocket, boat shoe type loafers. Sunglasses. Cornrowed blond hair.

The general was used to Anthony and didn't bat an eye. We all shook hands, sat down. The general's aide passed out file folders marked Top Secret and which contained typed up versions of the old Rangers versus Special Forces joke. I never knew if the Special Forces mentioned meant Green Berets, or SEALs or Delta Force. And I never asked.

We all read in silence but I was aware of eyes flicking towards Ranger when each team member got to the part about Army Rangers haircut and uniform inspections. Ranger has his issues, you know. And a few mouths quirked a grin at the Spec Ops travel plans. Yeah, we like to drive our own vehicles. And some of us, Santos and Stewart to name a few, just looove to parachute into - wherever. But no one commented or joked. We're too professional.

Now Ranger was eying General MXXX in silence, somehow conveying skepticism despite the blank face.

Finally the general said, "Here's the thing. The scenario—it hasn't hit the media yet but three hours ago, Islamist jihadists took control of a Boeing 747 carrying 425 US tourists headed to the Holy Land."

?

"It's on the ground at Logan in Boston. The terrorists took control before the plane got airborne and unfortunately for them, the pilots engaged the flight override function. And the plane did not take off. Now they are at a standoff, sitting on the runway."

The FOF -flight override function-was new since 9/11. Its _raison d'etre_, its reason for being, was exactly as it apparently had been used this day. It made the plane unflyable. That plane was going nowhere.

"Powers that be don't want to use Spec Ops or Rangers...or Delta. And I figure we have maybe another couple hours before the press goes crazy with this."

Ranger nodded faintly. He said, "Any police SWAT team can do this kind of op. They train for it."

"I don't have a SWAT team, Colonel. But I do have you." General MXXX pushed back his chair and said, "Is it a go?"

…. … ….

**I looked around the table at the six men** who comprised my elite strike force. We—I—called them Omega Group, a play on Delta Force's name. And all these men were Delta trained, of course. Hell, they were everything trained-Rangers, SEALs, Spec Ops-they had all done the courses. And of course they were all military still, of sorts-in a mercenary, soldier-for-hire sort of way. I like that. I paid Manoso a retainer and made sure everyone in the military knew he was an officer, my officer. He was too young really, but I had gone outside normal channels and seen to it that he was a full-bird Army Spec Ops colonel. And he deserved the rank, too, as did his men.

Sometimes I looked at Carlos Manoso and I'd think, _He'll have my job someday. The boy was born to be a four-star general._

Other government agencies also used Rangeman's talents, in various ways. The firm was discreet and effective, if incredibly costly. I congratulated myself for being the first in line, for having a full-service contract that meant Rangeman's services were already paid for, no quibbling or haggling like Secretary of HLS Elaine Hamilton and all the others got involved in. Sure, there were surcharges and finders fees, and expenses. Not to mention a massive scale for bonuses, for a job well-done. But essentially, the bulk of Rangeman's fees were already in Manoso's Swiss or Cayman secret bank accounts, paid out from the military's black operations budget.

I watched the group read the info, read the briefing. In my own way I was fond of these young men. Idly I hoped that all would go well with this op. I studied each intense face, one by one. I rarely noticed but fact was, they were all ridiculously good-looking. A few years ago, when we still met at Fort Meade, my wife had accidently walked in on the end of a meeting I'd had with my Omega guys. It was a debriefing and, for some unremembered reason, they were all dressed in pale desert cammo fatigues and jump boots. Undercover, I guess.

She had innocently popped in to invite me to lunch, some anniversary or something, you know how women are. And she got a good glimpse of Manoso and his "crew." Later, she had relentlessly teased me, saying it looked like a male model convention. "Playgirl meets Soldier of Fortune, dear?" Then she jestingly accused me of making misleading recruiting propaganda: "Or—Be ALL that You Can Be? Darling, no regular eighteen year old private is gonna _ever_ look like them!" I kept a stony silence. She giggled and went on, "Or are you going after the female contingent? Yeah, that would work. You'll have women enlisting in droves."

My wife was usually pretty good about being discreet, not asking too many questions when an op was obviously covert. But not today-the wine at lunch was going to her head. I frowned and ignored her so completely that she finally subsided and said, "Oh. They really are soldiers?"

I said quietly, "You don't need to know, Anna." And while it somewhat spoiled our romantic lunch, she never again asked me about the Rangeman AKA Omega Group men. Until that asshole General Morty Jackson and our previous US President got Carlos's face plastered all over CNN a few years ago. Then Anna took a good hard look and said, "James! Isn't that…?"

"You still don't need to know," I answered.

Now I refocused on my Omega group, searching each face, all so calm. So blank.

I said, "Major Collins will remain here and brief you in more detail. I have to get back to Washington and brief the President. He's doing a news briefing, live TV tonight at 8."

Manoso said, "You need to keep the press contained."

"I'll do my best, Carlos."

"Try hard," he responded. He didn't bother to add any threats but I know Rangeman levies a huge surcharge on ops run by General Jackson, the general who made Ranger's face famous worldwide. Guess Ranger was still pissed.

I said, again, "It's a go?"

Ranger said, "_No problemo_," and stood and shook my hand. See, that's why I love Omega. There's always NO problem.

…. … ….

**The rest of the Army contingent filed out a half hour** after the general made his escape. He likes Rangeman's work but he's desperately afraid I'm gonna up my rates. He's a good man and I respect him, so he's fairly safe. But he doesn't need to know that.

My name is…ah, um…Carlos Manoso and I run this place.

I said, "Comments, gentlemen?"

Antonio said, "The news conference is at twenty-hundred hours so we have a window of maybe 8 to 10 hours to pull this off."

I nodded, looked at him closely for the first time today. I said, "Your shirt is pink."

"I was on the 8th hole at Bethpage Black when you paged me. Lucky for you I even picked up."

_Hmmm._ "How was it?"

"The course is great, lotta improvements. The US Open should be interesting."

"Did they make it easier?" I asked.

"Naw. Lotta pros are gonna be even more pissed than they were last time."

"Sorry I blew your game, hermano." Use of the famously difficult golf course was severely restricted until after the US Open is played there in June. Antonio must have pulled strings to get a tee time.

Anthony shrugged and said, "S'okay. Let's do this."

I nodded a bit and refocused. "Ok, here's the deal…."

… …. ….

**We took Anthony's LearJet and flew to Boston**. We went in. We rescued the tourists. We, ah, neutralized the terrorists. The op did not take two hours, let alone two weeks; no equipment was lost or stolen; the 747 was returned to the airline is its original if shabby condition. No one got pregnant. We were however, paid from a Spec Ops secret fund, that part was eerily accurate.

The President was able to go on TV at 8PM and tell the American people, "My fellow Americans, today a group of incredibly heroic Boston police officers"—yeah, riiight, can you all say _deep cover_?—"foiled an attempted airplane hijacking. No civilians were harmed and the evil jihadist perpetrators are in custody"—_as if, see the Spec Ops Results of Operation projection above, in the general's stupid but possibly accurate joke above—_"for their involvement in this heinous crime." And so on.

I made it home for Zoë's very first ballet recital. I slipped into my seat a bit late, but I was there to see my tiny princess twirl across the stage in her pretty pink tutu with the special silver spangles. I set aside all thoughts of crazed jihadists and kidnappers of small girls. Steph held my hand tight and we both smiled wide.

And after all, that's the whole point of it all. _Right?_

_tbc_


	13. Chapter 12 Revenge

**The Price is Right**

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**Chapter Twelve - Revenge**

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_**Revenge? What revenge? **__And how?_

After interrogating the phony FBI agents and following the trail of evidence to the incontrovertible guilt of Cabinet Secretary of Homeland Security Elaine Hamilton and CIA Director Alison Marshall, I was still having a hard time deciding what do to the two crazed women who for some unfathomable reason had tried to kidnap my wife and younger daughter.

I read the files a second, then a third time, forcing myself to shrug off my disbelief, my gut-reaction denial. These women tried to hurt my girls—what the fuck were they _thinking_, anyway? I forced myself to put aside the fear and anger and analyzed the issue carefully, as was my habit and training. _I can't just kill them, they are DC bigwigs, part of the Presidential staff and/or Cabinet and I'm friendly, well—cordial—with the current President. And Steph probably won't want me to actually kill the women, right? So...if I ruin their careers, will it come back to bite me in the ass? If I let them live, will that come back to haunt me, us, instead? _

I carefully formulated a plan, picked up my secure phone. I made the call.

… … … …

**Our new President sat back** in his big executive —well what else?—office chair and stared at me. He was dressed in a nice but not great suit, maybe Brooks Brothers? Barney's NYC? and a white shirt, no tie—his at-work look. I had hesitated about what to wear. My life is filled with uniforms, Rangeman blacks/ Spec Ops blacks/ Army green_. In its own way even a hand-tailored Italian suit is a uniform,_ I thought, and glanced at Antonio who, yes, wore bespoke Brioni, an Hermes tie and a scowl. In the end I chose the uniform that was the most non-confrontational in this venue, the most easily accepted in the White House, in the Oval Office. I wore my Army colonel's dress uniform, with all my medals and campaign ribbons on bright display. I looked like a friggin' war hero.

Today in addition to wildly out-dressing our host, Anthony displayed no hint of the easygoing surfer dude persona he liked to affect at times. No smile, no charm. Instead he radiated fury and contempt, his anger overwhelming and I wondered if I looked as mean. Anthony was furious that people who were—not bad guys!—but persons of trust and power, for whom we have dependably performed invaluable, flawless service, had dared to try to harm those he loved. Including me, I suppose. And so here he sat in the Oval Office, intimidating the new guy on my behalf. With all his billions and international monetary and economic power boldly displayed.

Good "cop", bad "cop". Trite, but it works.

The man sitting under the Presidential Seal would not be allowed to sidetrack the situation with issues of a mercenary aspect. He would not be permitted to shunt me off under a black ops cover and pretend that nothing was wrong. And to his credit, he did not even try. He listened carefully to what I had to say. He read the reports. And now he glanced at each man in the room: not just me and Anthony, but Anthony's two men-in-black bodyguards, who looked more Secret Service than the President's own. And I had Tank, in Rangeman black.

The President said quietly, "This is a terrible thing, Colonel Manoso. I can't even imagine—I mean, I have daughters of my own…and my wife…." He threw up his hands in disgust. "What are your thoughts here?"

I said, "Kidnapping is a federal offense, Mr. President, as is conspiracy to commit kidnapping. Both are considered capital crimes and could carry a death sentence in a state with the death penalty."

"I don't believe New Jersey has the death penalty, Colonel."

"Yes, it would depend on the state where the conspiracy was entered into."

"Colonel, could I speak to you—alone?"

I paused, considering, and as the silence drew out he looked a bit miffed. _These guys get so spoiled so fast._ I said, "Perhaps we could get some fresh air, sir, take a stroll in the Rose Garden maybe?''

His eyes met mine and he silently admitted that even if I sent my people out of the room, this office was wired to the hilt. There was no privacy here, none at all.

"Good idea. Excuse us, gentlemen," he politely said to the others. "You can wait here."

Anthony said, "I don't think so," and he held the french doors to the White House's back lawn. He'd stay out of supposed earshot but both he and Tank would watch my back. _What? I didn't live to age 30 in the world of clandestine wars by being trusting, did I?_ Antonio's bodyguards watched _him_. And—I inwardly smiled—they blended so well.

Anthony's bodyguards work for him, not Rangeman. I train them but he hires them and he pays them exorbitant salaries for their unflinching loyalty. Even I found them slightly off-putting, because, for example, while I knew Tank would protect Anthony as if he were me, I figured these guys would step calmly over my broken, bleeding body and only care about Antonio. Only the fact that my being killed would upset their boss might impact their focus and let them come to my aid if needed. But on the other hand, Anthony Stewart is a very rich young man; he needs them. I don't, or so I like to believe.

So now, instead of the Rose Garden, which is, of course, also fully wired for sound, the President of the United States and I strolled out into the open lawn of the White House's—what—backyard? _Does the President light the barbie on Sunday afternoons and share a brewski with his cronies? Probably not_. Anyway where the Marine ONE Presidential helicopter's landing pad is located, nice, wide-open grass. Finally the President said, "Colonel Manoso—look , can I call you Carlos? Or Ranger?" I nodded. "Carlos, I mean this with all due respect, but, well, my understanding of your, ah, aptitude or forte is that you are a shooter, as they say in the CIA, maybe even a gun for hire, even if you are our gun for hire…."

I shrugged. "Every government needs a specialist at times. No need to be embarrassed, sir. It is actually quite an efficient way of neutralizing terrorism."

"And your country is very grateful, Carlos. Or it would be if they only knew."

"Not important, sir. And of course it pays well, as you know."

"But to repay you by terrorizing your little girl! How old is she, again?"

"Zoë is four, sir. And her terror, or lack thereof, is not the point. The point is that a member of your Cabinet and the head of a crucial covert agency conspired to steal her and my wife. I cannot allow that, Mr. President. I cannot, I _will_ not accept that."

He looked a little nervous but agreed, "Nor should you, but—as an assassin," he whispered, "—were you thinking of…?"

_Oh. Now I see where this is going. He thinks I want to take out Hamilton and Marshall!_

I stopped and looked the President in the eye. "Sir. I do not wish to terminate these women. My wife would be very distressed if that happened." _And I only kill people for money, but let's not confuse the issue at hand…._ "No. I have a better plan, sir."

"Yes?"

And I explained….

... ... ...

**A week later, I am seated behind my modern rosewood and glass desk**, surrounded by my law books and works of military history and strategy. It's a Wednesday afternoon in late October. I lean back in my extra-large, comfy leather executive chair and stare at the interloper standing here in my office at Rangeman Trenton. The silence drags out as I inwardly curse the desk guy who let this man in and I curse Ranger for leaving me here to "hold the fort" while he and Anthony go off to kick that kidnapping idiot woman's ass.

I like my office. It is more traditional than Ranger's real working office on the fifth floor, though he has a similarly corporate fake office down the hall which he uses for certain_ situations_. My desk is big, my chair is big, the carpet is plush dark slate grey and the air-conditioning works great. I have my books, a vintage brass reading lamp and my collection of gallery-framed silver-negative sepia photos of Civil War military camps and soldiers. All authentic, circa 1860.

This idiot does not belong here. But clueless as ever, the man sticks out his hand and says, "Remember me? I'm John Rosen, a free lancer for Newsweek. I want to do a follow up to my stories on Mr. Manoso and Rangeman. I was hoping to interview you."

"Get real."

"The news is as real as it gets, Tank. I can call you Tank, right?" He waits but I refuse to respond. He goes on, "Can I sit?" and makes himself comfy in the repro Chippendale guest chair.

I wait. He says, "What I was thinking was that I'd ask you Ten Questions, like that Bernard guy does."

_What?_

"And once you answer my questions, I'll leave you alone."

"Is that threat or a promise, man?"

"Do we have a deal?"

I nod.

"So before we start, can you tell me your full name?"

"No."

"Ah. Well, we can revisit that, I guess."

_Don't waste my time._

"One," he says. "Where are you from? Do I detect a hint of the south?"

"No comment."

Rosen heaves a big put-upon sigh and says, "2: Where did you go to school? Did you go to college? If so, where?"

"Is that three questions?"

"No."

I say, "No comment."

"3: Were you in the military?"

"No comment."

"How old are you? That's number four, I guess."

"32."

The guy looks thrilled. He says, "Five. What is your job here at Rangeman Security?"

I consider that and finally say, "I am the vice-president in charge of operations. In effect I am Co—Mr. Manoso's right hand man."

_Why try to explain the rest of it…_

" 6: How long have you known Ranger Manoso?"

"A while."

Rosen consults his notes. He says, "Hhhhmmm, let me see…. Gotta liven this up…." I guess he is not talking to me, so I wait. He looks up. "Ok, seven: Have you ever fired two guns while jumping through the air?"

"No."

"Have you ever fired _one _gun while jumping through the air?"

_Do I look like a man who jumps through the air? I'm built like a linebacker, not a power forward. Geez. Although I did do paratrooper school at one point, but still…. And even there we didn't usually shoot til we got our boots on the ground._

I answer. "No. Was that eight?"

"I guess. Um—ever been in a high-speed pursuit?"

"Yes, I have."

"Have you ever fired a gun while in a high speed pursuit?"

"No! What's with you and the guns, Rosen?"

"Guns are sexy and sex sells news mags."

"You're out of your effin' mind."

"Can I quote you?"

I lean hard on my intercom button and when Ram says, "Yes?" I say, "GET in here and escort Mr. Rosen off the premises."

"Yessir."

Rosen protests, "But I wasn't done."

"Ten questions, Rosen. I can count even if you cannot."

"Oh, okay. Thank you for your time." Ram looms in the doorway and Rosen gets up.

I say, "Don't come back." Ram grabs the little twerp's bicep and firmly escorts him out.

I sit again and wonder if the op is going better than life here in Trenton. I flip on my office TV and watch CNN. And I wait.

**tbc**

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**a/n: The final chapter will be posted on Friday evening. I hope you all have enjoyed meeting Mercenary Ranger and entering his world. Thanks for reading and special thanks to everyone who took the time to review, your feedback is awesome.**

**sunny**


	14. Chapter 13 Retribution

**The Price is Right**

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**Dedicated to all my friends in my writers' group - you guys know who you are! With many thanks for your encouragement, inspration and most importantly your friendship!**

**All standard fanfic disclaimers apply for entire story.**

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**Chapter Thirteen ~ Retribution**

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**We flew to Atlanta in Anthony's corporate Learjet, the **same plane we used for the recent Boston job. It was sleek, luxurious, fast, and in no way attached to the name Ranger Manoso or Rangeman. It is also a civilian aircraft, but a quick call to our friend the general at the Pentagon got us clearance and we landed at Dobbins Air Force Base in Georgia with no problem.

An Air Force airman in crisply starched coveralls saluted both me and Antonio and presented the compliments of Brigadier General Mailer who runs Dobbins. He added, "The General would like to see you forthwith, sir. Sirs." We nodded agreeably but didn't salute back since we were in casual civilian clothes. At the base HQ, Mailer shook our hands, offered us drinks and said, "How can I help you? The President said to give you any and all support that you need." We sat down in his office and I noticed he was eying me, us—with a certain air of curiosity or undue interest, so finally I said, "Sir?"—instead of my more usual _What._

Mailer said, "You're pretty famous in some circles, gentlemen. I used to fly air support for Spec Ops…and I still have my ear to the grapevine."

"Unfounded rumor, sir. Really," said Anthony who was the designated speaker since I had left poor Tank back in Trenton to run the business and watch over my girls.

General Mailer nodded, unconvinced but polite and said, " So…?"

Anthony said, "We need a small civilian aircraft and a pilot who won't ask too many questions."

"Because?"

"Because the targets are in a large house, a mansion, in a gated area of Buckhead. The perimeter is both electronically fenced and camera-inspected. Plus she has a security detail on the gates and owns guard dogs who roam loose on the premises."

"And so…?"

"So we'll do a fly over and parachute in; the pilot can land on some country road and pick us up at a specified time," explained Anthony.

"Sounds like a plan. I myself keep a small plane here at Cobb County Airport. It's a nice little six-seater prop job, a Sky Arrow. Old pilots never quit loving to fly, young man."

Anthony said, ""Italian-made?"

"Yes, I got a good deal, used of course. We can't all afford Lear jets, Major Stewart, not on a military salary."

Antonio nodded. The pretty little Lear was just one of his aerial transports; he had no ideas about a normal person's flying budget. The General said to me, "I know what went down with your family, Colonel. I'd be honored to lend it to you."

''Thank you, sir.''

"And I have the perfect pilot for you." He pressed his intercom and said, "Please send Lt. Colonel Stewart in."

Anthony and I both hid our shock well, I hoped. And we all rose politely at the breezy entrance of Air Force Reserve Pilot Barbie, AKA Jilly Stewart who is Antonio's sister—but not mine. Jilly was dressed like Will Smith in _Independence Day_, and actually has a similar tall skinny build and wiseass attitude. But she filled out her sleeveless AF flight suit nicely, great girly biceps, nice smooth tan and curves in all the right places, plus very long choppy blonde hair and big brown eyes. Looks like Victoria's Secret model Heidi Klum only younger and hotter.

She is masquerading apparently as an AF Reserves officer and pilot; she is actually only loosely attached to the military in that she flies for my Delta ops when Anthony cannot or when I need him for other aspects of the mission at hand or he is busy with his money deals. She's a great planner and strategist but not a shooter, though I know she can and will if necessary. Currently she mostly stays home with her little kids and her pug dogs, hangs out at the beach, makes quilts, of all things! and magical jewelry. And like her mom before her, she makes a warm and loving home for any and all of us in her big white beach house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

We three hugged and kissed, then the general shook our hands and said, "I'm going to go start things rolling with my plane, gas it up, run a prelim flight check and so on. You kids stay and talk." He smiled benignly and left.

_Hmmm_. "What are you doing here, Jilly?" I asked.

"Helping. You should have called me." She turned her eyes on her younger sibling who shrugged and looked at me. She sighed. "So you want to, like, _skydive_ into this woman's house? Onto her roof?" She rolled her eyes in disbelief.

I nodded. "She has a big place in Buckhead, got it in the divorce even though her ex still lives here and she's in DC. The woman is a shark, Jilly."

"That's not the point, Ranger. I know she tried to steal Steph and Zoë. 'Nuff said. But still….skydive?"

"Hamilton knows things went sideways with her plan but she hasn't been able to reach her on-site operatives—the guys who talked to Steph and Zoë—to get the details. So she figured she'll get outta town, long weekend. She even brought Marshall with her."

"How convenient. What happened to them, the Secret Service agents she was using?"

"We have them locked down and I imagine their careers are over. But no charges, they truly thought they were following my orders funneled through her office."

"So—what? When this is all over you'll offer them jobs at Rangeman? 'Cos you feel sorry for them? Even though they are obviously idiots?"

I stared at her and finally she gave me a little smug smile and shrugged.

"So this Hamilton broad, she can run but she sure as shit can't hide. Not so smart, babe, is she?" said Jilly. "Why don't I just land one of the base's copters by her pool—she does have a pool, right? And drop you boys off?"

"Too noisy," I said.

"No fun," said Antonio.

" 'Kay, but you two are such _guys!_ I hope this works. Ahhhh….are you gonna kill them? The women?"

"Of course not."

… … … …

"**Remember. After the President's news briefing**, we'll take the two women in their car and you'll land on Route 41, outside Marietta. It's just a couple of miles, nice wide road. And…"

"I _got_it, Ranger. Geez. Coming up on your target now. Open the doors," she said to the co-pilot, some star-struck Air Force kid whose eyes hadn't gone much above her chest since we'd left the ground. "Counting. 10, nine…go go go." We rolled out. This was, as Jilly called it, more skydiving than real paratrooper insertion tactics. We floated down gently and landed silently on the roof. Anthony looked happy and he grinned at me, his teeth flashing white and he said softly, "Geez, man, I love when a plan comes together like this. Perfect. Silent. Seamless."

"Seamless is my middle name," I said.

"Awesome, dude."

"Ssshhh!"

We let ourselves in through the roof access to the air conditioning unit. We tiptoed through the immense mansion, down to the great room where a fire was burning cheerfully and Hamilton and Marshall, in casual jeans and sweaters, got their wine and seated themselves for the Presidential news conference at 7 PM.

We listened. CIA Director Alison Marshall said, "I wonder why the President called and specifically asked us to watch tonight. It seems so odd."

"Who cares? He's just covering his ass, probably," rejoined Hamilton, who was, for now, the Secretary of Homeland Security.

"But…"

I took out my Glock and pointed to Hamilton, motioned to Anthony, gun in his hand too, to take Marshall. Anthony always works to my left, since he is left-handed and we reassessed then switched places, so that each of us had our targets directly in front of us. The two women sat oblivious, sipping cheap chardonnay.

As the TV cameras showed the president walking to his podium, I slipped silently forward and put my gun to Hamilton's head, my left arm snaking around her neck. I hissed, "You scream, you die, bitch." She gasped but was silent. I smelled a sudden hint of urine in the air. Our Secretary of HLS had peed herself. _Oh too bad_. With her immobilized, I looked at Antonio. He had Marshall in a similar choke hold but had taken the time to flexicuff her wrists and duct tape her mouth. Her wide, tear-filled eyes looked piteous but she was, after all, a trained CIA agent, if only a desk agent, and as such was potentially more dangerous than Hamilton.

I hissed, "Shut up, ladies. And listen closely."

On the flat screen TV the President said, "Good evening. My fellow Americans, tonight it is with great regret that I must announce some important changes in my Cabinet and other important advisory positions. Two women who have been forerunners in the pathways of women in government have informed me that they are leaving my administration. Their resignations will take effect immediately and I will be refilling these jobs as soon as possible. So, without further ado, let me say farewell to Secretary of Homeland Security, Elaine Hamilton, who is leaving for an indefinite period to serve as my Ambassador-at-large to the United Nations Council on World Hunger, stationed in Sudan. It is my hope that her talents can alleviate the suffering of that poverty- and famine-stricken country. Secretary Hamilton has personally demonstrated to me that while she realizes this challenge may last a lifetime, it will be a life well-earned. Excuse me, well-spent."

The President looked hard into the cameras, into the eyes of the world. After a pause he continued, "And farewell too to Allison Marshall who has served as the Director of the CIA for the past year. Ms Marshall will be leaving immediately for Angola to serve as permanent vice-ambassador to that needy and violently war-torn Third World nation.

"Ladies, America thanks you for your service and this new and almost unbelievable charity and goodness. Few men would be willing to make the choices that you ladies have made and hopefully the people of Africa will benefit from your actions. Farewell. Thank you and goodnight. No, sorry," he added to the clamoring sharks of the media. "No questions at this time, a full press briefing will be printed and handed out later."

I smiled. "I have a plane waiting for you, ladies." And to Antonio I said, "Let's go."

"Wait! What about the dogs, dude? We can't just leave them, they'd be sad. And hungry."

"They aren't her pets, they belong to her security detail."

"Professional dogs, awesome."

"Uh huh."

We took Hamilton's Mercedes, quickly set the GPS and called Jilly who said, "10-4." Ten minutes later, we pulled up next to a Cobb County sheriff's vehicle that was parked behind the General's cute little plane, the cop car's red and blue roof lights flashing in the early evening darkness.

Hamilton saw the cops and hissed, "I'll scream, they'll arrest you! This is kidnapping!"

I dug my Glock into her ribs and didn't respond. The sheriff tore his eyes away from Jilly's unzipped jumpsuit front and stalked over. He said, "Ranger." and we did a manly hand bump thing. I have a huge security firm in Atlanta, I am a well-known and highly respected businessman here. The cops and the sheriff's department guys are my buds. I handed over the keys to the Mercedes and the sheriff said, "You better move fast, CNN is almost here, you have maybe 30 seconds."

"Shit! You know your story?"

"Sure. _The FAA says blah blah blah and of course we let it take off, what was we gonna do, make the little lady drive 'er back to the county airstrip? Gosh sakes, mister. The pilot's just a real purty young thing, such a sweet girl. And all that blonde hair, hmm-umm_." His redneck down-home accent got thicker and thicker and we all grinned. And as the CNN satellite van rolled into view, floodlights blazing, we shoved the ladies aboard and rolled down the road. Nose up, then on to Dulles International. I leaned into Hamilton and whispered, "Next stop, Africa." She sobbed.

…..

_**EPILOG**_

**With Ranger out of town I decided**to take Zoë to my mom and dad's for dinner. I was just putting away the last dried plate when I heard Grandma saying, "Well looky there, if that don't beat all! Hey, Stephanie, come look!"

Mom and I dropped our dishtowels and ran into the living room.

The announcer was saying, "From Associated Press tonight: in MARIETTA, GEORGIA a small plane with two people on board has made an emergency landing on a highway in the northern Atlanta suburbs.

"Authorities say the Italian-made Sky Arrow plane was headed for the Cobb County Airport at 8:20 p.m. when the pilot reported possible smoke in the cockpit and engine failure.

"Sgt. Dana Pierce with the Cobb County police says the pilot landed on U.S. Highway 41 and then taxied the plane into a nearby subdivision. No injuries were reported. The names of the pilot and passenger were not released."

The CNN guy paused, listened, did the finger to the earbud thing and went on, "Just in, we have exclusive footage, live from Cobb County, Georgia, a suburb of Atlanta and very near the exclusive estate area of Buckhead, where this small plane unceremoniously made its unexpected landing….Here's the live footage…."

I sat down next to my grandmother on the old floral sofa. Mom had grabbed her glass of Jack Daniels and she squeezed in next to me. Daddy looked up from the paper and said, "World Series Pre-game's gonna start soon….maybe the Yanks will pull this off this year."

He aimed the remote at the TV and we all yelled , "NO!" He shrugged and waited.

The news footage rolled, a little dark but clear enough to see—

Grandma said, "Wow, I wouldn't mind being in a plane wreck with a couple hotties like that. Hunh! You know, Steph, that looks a lot like…ah…"

Two people were vanishing into the tiny plane; a third person, a well-built young man in jeans and baseball cap, jumped in behind them. The fourth man—also in jeans and a light windbreaker, no ballcap, short dark hair instead—turned, spoke to the Georgia county sheriff and deputy, shook everyone's hand, and smiled his megawatt, million dollar smile for TV audiences worldwide.

Zoë looked up from her jigsaw puzzle spread out on the living room floor. She glanced at us, no doubt intrigued to see us all the pictures of openmouthed amazement, followed our eyes to the TV. And then she smiled too. "Daddy! Look, mommy! Daddy is on TV again!"

And he was gone.

CNN segued back to the studio and I listened to the announcer who was saying, "In our top story tonight, breaking news from Washington! Bruce,"—he turned to his colleague— "What do you make of the sudden departure to Third World countries by these top-positioned Washington officials. Is it not very sudden and shocking?"

"Well, Gene, I have a feeling there is more to this than meets the eye."

My cell phone vibrated. Tank at Rangeman. "You see the news, Steph?"

"Yes."

"You okay?"

"At least he wasn't filmed in some 'stan place this time..."

"Uh...no."

"Um, Tank? He shipped them off to Third World countries!"

"Yeah, well, Steph, that's what he does. What? You thought it was an urban legend?"

"Um…"

"Ranger said he'll see you later tonight and all is well, okay? And he, ah, sent his love."

"He_ did_?"

"Yeah. So you're okay? And Zoë?"

"Sure, Tank. 10-4, keep the faith. Whatever."

"Keep the faith, Steph." He hung up.

"Mommy, mommy, they're showing daddy again! Look."

"Of course they are, baby. Mom, is there any cake left? I could really use some right now."

And so we had cake.

**the end**


End file.
